


The Better One

by Katie_Grey



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Boy-Who-Lived Neville Longbottom, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Eventual Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, F/M, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Multi, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-07-25 10:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 148,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16195244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katie_Grey/pseuds/Katie_Grey
Summary: On Halloween night, Voldemort enters the house of two young parents and murders them. However, when he tries to kill their young son, his soul is ripped from his body and the boy is left with a lightning shaped scar. From that night on, wizards everywhere will honor the name of Neville Longbottom, the boy who lived. HP/DM. Some HP/OC. RW/HG.





	1. Prologue - Green

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! It’s been a really LONG time since I made any fanfiction. I’ve been writing original stories for a while now, but I’ve fallen into some writer’s block and decided to return to this! I’m really not sure if I’ll finish it… I don’t have the best record of finishing things. But I thought this was a cool idea, and I hope you do too!  
> Oh, and by the way, this is my first story on this site. So please tell me if I'm doing something wrong.  
> Please review if you like it!  
> -Katie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was made for a writing prompt, that basically wanted a Drarry fic where Neville is the boy who lived. But it has much more than that, that it hardly even follows the prompt anymore. I think it's my dark mind - it feeds on blood and death and the sorrow of little children. I've forced myself to balance it out with some happy stuff too... and I hope you like it.  
> If you don't like slash for whatever reason... then maybe don't read this fic. However, just know that there will be no sex and I've tried not to make it sappy. Anddd this is not a ship fic. The plot comes first, then the relationships.  
> Please review if you like it! It only takes a few minutes, and it helps me so, so much.  
> xoxo,  
> Katie

Prologue.  
Green.  
-  
Oh, green.  
Just the thought sent electricity up his spine. Little prickles on the back of his neck. Stars in his eyes. It even made him smile, wide, with teeth. Yellow, molding teeth.   
Beside him, Wormtail shuddered.   
Useless.   
Pettigrew would have to die someday.  
He gripped his wand tightly. There were sparks in his belly and in his head, and the delicious fire at the tips of his fingers. Something resembling excitement, happiness, even. He didn’t feel happiness anymore, these were just the side-effects. Chemicals running around in his brain. Nevertheless, Voldemort grinned, and Pettigrew shuddered.   
Each step he took made the happiness more intense. He licked his lips. The light at the top of the stairs went out and then burst into flame. The pictures were suddenly ripped into pieces. A vase crashed onto the floor, and then the pieces flew out of the windows and exploded. The very shadows trembled. Voldemort laughed. He loved this power.   
There was a row of doors at the top of the stairs. (Which were on fire.) “Which one?” he demanded. The killing curse was on the tip of his tongue, and they knew it. No one spoke. The hooded death eaters waited behind him like cowards.  
“It’s a simple question,” he hissed, nastily, turning to glare at them, watching them cower before him.   
Dolohov kicked open a door. An empty bedroom. “Next,” Voldemort said, his high-pitched voice scratching the walls. The paint was scraped from the ceiling, the Dark Mark carved into the walls. Suddenly, all his Death Eaters found that their noses were bleeding. They started moving much faster.  
The doors were all kicked open. Voldemort destroyed them with glee. And then, finally, he heard the scream. High and shrill and stupid. From the last door. He swept into the room, barely noticing how the pictures and the stuffed animals exploded, cackling, the killing curse already forming into words. “Avada Kedavra!” he laughed, and laughed, and the beautiful green light shot from his fingers.   
And then Frank Longbottom was dead, with his wand in his hand.   
The screams died with him, but Voldemort knew where they were. Huddled in the closet like cowards. Voldemort smiled at Longbottom’s frozen face, and his body shattered into little pieces and melted into the floor,  
The closet door blew up. Voldemort didn’t even remember casting the spell. There was power in his fingertips, anything he wished to die, died, instantly. The clothes were on fire. Everything burned. To them, it must have looked like hell on earth.  
Alice just shrieked stupidly, uselessly. “Not him! Not Neville!”   
Voldemort just laughed in her face. The words spilled from his lips, he couldn’t have stopped it if he tried. (Of course, he never tried.) Avada Kedavra. And Alice lay on the floor, dead, her face full of pure terror. Her body burst like a balloon and turned to dust.   
The Longbottom runt, a ugly fat thing, fell uselessly onto the floor, where it lay, squealing and crying like a baby pig.   
Voldemort didn’t even have to think. He laughed and pointed his want at it. “Avada Kedavra!” he shouted, laughing.  
It was like fire.  
Voldemort screamed as his body was destroyed. His skin was ripped to shreds like paper. He was burning, he was electricity, he was being pulled out of his body like a snake shedding its skin. Tearing, ripping at him like a vicious werewolf. He screamed.   
Then he was gone.  
Oh, green.  
And the Death Eaters, cowards that they were, disappeared in an instant. Twenty loud pops and suddenly Neville was alone, crying in the burning closet, with a lightning scar on his forehead.  
Neville Longbottom.  
The boy who lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please review.


	2. One - The Train Ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter one! I hope you like it! And if you do, don’t be afraid to leave a little review!  
> Katie

One.  
Little Things.  
-  
Neville entered the dusty wand shop, and when he did, a little bell tinkled merrily. Ollivander, a grey, wrinkled, slightly raisin-like wizard, peeked out from behind a tottering pile of thin boxes.  
“Neville Longbottom,” he said, sounding slightly amazed. “I was wondering when I’d see you here.”  
His gran spoke for him, like she always did. “He’s happy to see you too. Now, he needs a wand. What would you recommend?”  
“I can talk for myself,” Neville muttered.  
“I’m sure you can, dear,” she smiled and patted him on the shoulder. He scowled.  
Ollivander watched all of this with his mouth hanging slightly open. He realized what he was doing, closed it with a snap, and disappeared behind a shelf piled with wand boxes. “A wand, a wand,” he whispered. “A wand for Neville Longbottom.”  
He seemed unable to keep the excitement out of his voice.  
“How about this?” he asked, handing Neville a slender, dark wand. “Black Walnut. Dragon heartstring. Nine inches.”  
Neville waved it. Something broke loudly in the back of the shop.  
Ollivander snatched the wand away with a very worried expression on his face. “Umm… no, no, let’s not use that one. That poor candlestick… Anyway. How about this one?” He handed Neville another wand. “Cedar. Unicorn hair. Eight inches.” He waited nervously, with his hands clasped together.  
Neville waved it. One of Ollivander’s shoelaces promptly snapped, flew into the air, hit the ceiling, and fell back down right onto Ollivander’s head.  
“No, I don’t suppose that would be a good choice either,” Ollivander muttered, pulling the shoelace out of his hair and tossing it into one of the shelves, which made several boxes fall to the floor.  
Neville’s gran gave an impatient snort.  
Ollivander disappeared behind another towering stack of wands. Behind it, Neville could just see the top of his gray hair. He emerged with a strange look on his face, and handed Neville another wand.  
“Eleven inches, holly, phoenix feather,” he said, watching Neville very closely.  
Neville waved the wand.  
A faint pink ribbon of light circled up into the air. When it disappeared, the ceiling was still striped an obnoxious shade of pink. The wand felt warm in Neville’s hand.  
“Curious, very curious,” Ollivander whispered. “You see Neville, this wand shares the same core as another. The one that gave you that scar.”  
Neville was suddenly hyper-aware of his forehead. Ollivander’s eyes wandered to the scar and back to his eyes. Wordlessly, he gave Neville the box.  
()()()  
“BOY!” Vernon shouted. “SHE’LL BE HERE IN SEVEN SECONDS!”  
Harry rolled his eyes, stuffing handfuls of socks into his suitcase. “Just a second, I’m almost done packing!” He closed the suitcase, then realized he had forgotten toothpaste.  
Mrs. Figg apparated into the living room. He could hear it from all the way upstairs in his room, which was full of Dudley’s dusty, broken toys. He sneezed.  
“BOYYY!” Vernon roared. The only way he knew to communicate was by shouting, as he was unable to produce complex sentences. Aunt Petunia rapped on his door. Harry wished he knew how to hex people properly, aside from that time he had accidentally given Dudley a pig’s tail last Thanksgiving. He had some wonderful ideas of what he would do.  
“Coming!” he shouted at the door. He heard Aunt Petunia’s annoyed breathing from behind the door, which she knocked on again. He grabbed any pair of shoes that he could find and stuffed them into his suitcase. Then he flung the door open, “accidentally” hitting his aunt in the face, and ran past her down the stairs, just in time to avoid her furious swipe at his head.  
“I’m here, Mrs. Figg!” he missed the last step in his hurry, and ended up sprawled on the living room floor. Vernon slapped his hand against his face. Harry glared at him, got up, grudgingly allowed Mrs. Figg to hug him, and then opened the door with an evil glance at Dudley, who tried to hide behind Aunt Petunia. “See you next summer!” he said, gleefully. Hexing Dudley was bound to be fun.  
Harry slammed the door shut behind him and Mrs. Figg, and they climbed into Mrs. Figg’s little blue car and to King’s Cross. The car smelled like cats. Harry sneezed again.  
“I’ve got your spell books, I think. And some of your money from Gringotts,” Mrs. Figg said, in her wavering old-lady voice. “And your wand, of course. I got you a nice one. Willow, I think it was? Dragon heartstring. Nine inches, or some such.”  
“Thanks,” Harry said. “Did you get me a…”  
“I got you a toad,” Mrs. Figg said, beaming. Harry’s heart sank dramatically. “They had some rather nice ones. I think this one’s name was Trevor. He’s in the backseat. I would have gotten you a cat, but these were on sale!”  
A toad. Mrs. Figg, of all people, should know not to get him a toad! He should have told her he wanted an owl. Harry sighed, found the box labeled Trevor strapped into the backseat, and opened it to find an extremely fat, averagely green toad who croaked in his face.  
Harry put the lid back on the box, groaning. This was going to be a very long year.  
Mrs. Figg was still beaming. “Ah, here we are. King’s Cross. You know how to get to the platform, don’t you? You walk through the…”  
“Yes, I know,” Harry said, jumping out of the car and piling all of his things onto the trolley. He waved goodbye to Mrs. Figg and headed for the barrier. On the way he passed a family of redheads all pushing trolleys. He heard someone shout, “FRED FERDINAND WEASLEY!” and that vaguely reminded him of Uncle Vernon. He smiled at them, and then ran through the barrier to the platform.  
He choked on the smoke that billowed into his face. That probably would have been very embarrassing, if anyone was looking at him. But everyone was gathered in a tight group, that for some reason seemed to be making bright flashes of light…  
Oh, he was stupid. Cameras. And that meant… Could it be Neville Longbottom? He was the same age as Harry, wasn’t he?  
Harry cautiously approached the group, trying to see over the heads of people, jumping up and down and scowling when he still couldn’t see. Finally, he gave up and walked onto the train. He would get to see Neville later. They were going to be in the same year, after all. But he couldn’t help wanting to see the scar…  
All of the compartments at the front of the train were full of chattering students, so Harry went to the back. Ah, finally, peace and quiet. After ten years of shouting Vernons, horse-faced Petunias, and squealing piggy Dudleys. It was nice to know that they finally wouldn’t be here. And soon, he would be at Hogwarts! He had been obsessing over it for the whole summer, and now he was on the Hogwarts Express, just hours away.  
He found an empty compartment and settled down for a nice, peaceful, train ride with just himself and his stupid, fat toad.  
But suddenly a hand was thrust in front of his face.  
Harry’s eyes traced along the hand to the arm and then to the face of a very pale, blonde-haired boy.  
“Yes?” he asked, pushing Trevor’s box out of the boy’s line of sight, and pushing his broken glasses to the top of his nose.  
The boy took a deep breath with the air of someone pretending not to be taking a deep breath, and said, “Hello. I’m Draco Malfoy.” He sneered, and then seemed to realize that he was sneering and tried not to but failed and ended up with a sort of a grimace.  
Harry smiled at the battle going on in the boy’s face. “Hi, I’m Harry Potter,” he said. He stood, and shook his hand. “You can sit here if you want,” he offered.  
Draco’s eyes widened, and then he tried to narrow them back into slits but they wouldn’t, and all of a sudden he looked extremely insane. Harry raised an eyebrow. “Are you all right?”  
“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Draco asked, haughtily, and sauntered into the compartment. He used some levitation spell to carry all of his things with him, and Harry saw with a sinking heart that he had a beautiful dark brown owl instead of a toad.  
“Was that Longbottom? Neville Longbottom, I mean?” Harry asked, still slightly in awe of having been so close to the boy who lived.  
“Course it was,” Draco sneered easily this time, and sat down across from Harry. “Who else could attract so much attention simply for being there?”  
Harry thought that there might be a hidden meaning concealed in that sentence, but he couldn’t figure it out. “I wish I got to see him,” he said. “And… you know, the scar.”  
And just like that, the train started moving.  
“I like your owl,” Harry said wistfully, admiring the owl’s beautiful, glossy feathers. She puffed up her chest when she noticed he was watching, and raised her beak in the air.  
“Her name’s Persephone,” Draco said, tapping her on the beak. “A gift from my father.”  
“I’ve got a toad,” Harry confessed.  
“Really?” Draco’s eyes widened, then he laughed, and then he sneered again.  
“Yeah. Someone bought him for me, and didn’t know that I wanted an owl.”  
“Can I see?” Draco asked, smirking.  
Harry grimaced and opened the box labeled Trevor.  
The toad wasn’t there.  
Draco looked confused, and asked, “Where did it…?” But Harry was already searching around the compartment, looking in between cushions and under the seats. Trevor was definitely not there.  
“Oh god,” he muttered. “Mrs. Figg will kill me.”  
He ran past Draco (who was still looking into the box) and into the hallway, stuck his head into every compartment, and asked, “Has anyone seen a toad?” One pair of redheaded twins shrugged and held up a chocolate frog. Most people just ignored him, or shook their heads, annoyed. But finally he met a pair of students in the middle of the hallway, and one of them was holding a fat toad. They both had very irritated looks on their faces. He thanked them, extremely embarrassed. Trevor croaked loudly when Harry grabbed him. It sounded like he thought he was going to die.  
“Sorry,” he said. “Stupid thing ran away.”  
“It’s all right,” said a girl with very bushy hair, and very large front teeth. “Isn’t it, Ron?”  
“Yeah, Hermione.” Ron muttered. “I totally wanted to spend this train ride looking for the owner of a really fat toad. Who even has a toad, anyway? Why would you buy one?”  
The girl elbowed him in his side.  
Harry thanked them again, hurried back to his compartment, and stuffed Trevor tightly back into his box. Draco sealed it with a spell. Persephone looked extremely pompous as she strutted around her cage. Harry was sure he saw her glare at Trevor’s box with those big yellow eyes.  
Draco spent a few moments looking out the window. He looked like he was deep in thought, so Harry pulled out one of his school books and started reading.  
An Introduction to Potions.  
Potions, the art of brewing ingredients to produce liquids of great and varied power, has been in existence for millenia. The first potion was invented by ancient wizards, probably around 350 b.c., when dragon teeth were invented by ancient wizards, probably around 350 b.c., when ancient wizards were invented by dragon teeth, probably around 350 b.c.  
Harry closed the book, when he realized that he had read the same sentence three times. Sort of.  
A girl, who sort of looked like a pug, burst into the compartment without asking and sat next to Draco, so close that their arms brushed together. She had a large nose and big black eyes, with shiny scarlet hair cropped short and dancing around her face. “Hello,” she said to Harry. “I’m Pansy Parkinson.”  
“Hi,” Harry said, awkwardly. “I’m Harry Potter.”  
That was the extent of their introduction. Harry looked back down at his book, but didn’t have any more luck. Dragon teeth are an important ingredient in most Potions, which are an important ingredients in Potions, which are an important ingredients in… oh, fuck it. Harry settled for staring blankly at the page and pretending to read. His new acquaintances were more interesting, anyway.  
Draco was smiling at Pansy. “Hey Pans,” he said. “I thought you said your father was going to fly you to Hogwarts on his invisible broom because trains were for ‘crude Mudbloods’?”  
Harry jerked his head up at the word. Ever since a young age, Mrs. Figg had reminded him never to say that word. He opened his mouth to tell them off.  
Pansy sighed. “Oh, dearest Draco, they are, but I’m afraid I’ll just have to suffer,” she cried, putting her hand to her forehead dramatically.   
Draco smirked. “Honestly, I’m not sure how Muggleborns can endure this. With the plush cushions and the trolley sweets and the beautiful view, it’s just awful. We privileged Pureblood children have to go through so much.”  
This made Pansy burst out laughing.  
Harry was confused. He realized that his mouth was still open, so he snapped it shut.  
“But, honestly Pansy, how’d you get out of it?” Draco asked, sounding curious.   
Pansy flipped her red hair, looking smug. “I snuck out. Draco, I took the Knight bus to King’s Cross. I told them my name was Ginny Weasley!” she said, with a high-pitched laugh. “When he finds out, I’ll just say that I forgot. I pretend to forget things a lot. It works to my advantage.”  
Draco looked impressed. “Honestly, I’m surprised my father let me ride in a train with a bunch of filthy mudbloods,” he scrunched up his face when he said it, and seemed like he was trying to sound posh and obnoxious.  
Pansy giggled.   
Harry was more confused than ever.  
Draco sighed. “He was probably too busy licking his arse to remember that he had a son!”  
Pansy burst out laughing. She leaned on Draco, throwing her arms around him and laughing into his shoulder.  
Harry was even more confused.  
“Um…” he tried, trying to catch their attention.  
They both turned and looked at him, looking ridiculous with their arms flung around each other. Then they both started to laugh again, loudly. Pansy gasped out something in the midst of her laughter, something like, “He’s… so… confused, Draco!” which only made both of them laugh harder. They sounded like a group of hyenas.  
Harry glared at them, crossing his arms and waiting for their laughter to fizzle out so that they could explain themselves. This was weird, and he didn’t like people laughing about some joke that he didn’t get.  
Finally, they stopped laughing and looked at him expectantly.  
“What’s so funny?” Harry asked.  
They looked at each other.  
And burst out laughing again.  
“Oh.... my god…” Pansy gasped, wiping tears from her eyes.  
“My stomach hurts,” Draco whined, which made Pansy start laughing again.   
“A-hem,” Harry snapped. “Is anyone going to tell me what’s so funny?  
“Oh god, Draco. Where’d you find him?” Pansy choked out in between bubbles of laughter. “He’s hilarious!” she clapped her hands together, leaning forward to laugh into her knees. Draco lost it again, covering his face with his hands and leaning his head back against the cushion, but his laughter was barely muffled. They sounded like idiots.  
Harry scowled at them.  
“Oh, do you think he thinks we’re serious? Does he understand sarcasm?” Pansy asked, still giggling.  
Draco frowned to Harry. “Come on Pans, don’t be mean. It might not make sense to someone who hasn’t been hearing the same joke repeated for five years.”  
“We do make this joke a lot, don’t we?” Pansy asked. “It gets funnier every time, I swear,” she wiped at her eyes again, but had apparently calmed down enough to pull a cockroach cluster out of her pocket and take a bite. “Sorry, Harry. It’s a Pureblood Slytherin brat thing. You might not get it.”  
Draco rolled his eyes at her.   
“Anyway,” Pansy said, around a large wing she was currently chewing. “What house do you think you’ll get, Harry?” she had moved away from Draco, so now their arms were only brushing again, which made Harry feel moderately better. And even though they evidently had some very confusing inside jokes, and would possibly be Slytherins, Harry still felt like it would be a good idea to try and become friends with them. After all, he knew absolutely no one at Hogwarts. He didn’t want to be friendless. The thought of being completely alone scared him.  
And they seemed nice enough.  
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll just get whatever the Hat sorts me into, I guess.”  
A while ago, he told Mrs. Figg that when he was sorted, he would ask for anything but Slytherin. But she told him that the Sorting Hat always knew best. He should just let it sort him. So that was what he would do.  
“Yes, that’s all well and good, but what do you think you’ll get? Are you smart? Are you nice? Are you brave? Are you a privileged arsehole?” Draco asked, which made Pansy start to giggle crazily.   
Harry hesitated, not sure what to say. “I guess I’m a bit of… the first three,” he said.  
Draco nodded. “I think you’ll be a Gryffindor. Sometimes you can just tell with people,” he said, before stealing a cockroach cluster from Pansy’s pocket. She squealed and slapped his hand, but he popped it into his mouth and grinned at her. “Pansy here, she’s a Hufflepuff at heart,” he said, causing another indignant squeal from Pansy. “She’ll ask for Slytherin, but she should really be sleeping by the kitchens,” he said, smirking evilly at her.  
She rolled her eyes and punched him on the arm  
Harry watched them as they joked back and forth, slightly enviously, without speaking. Just pretending to read his book. He felt something sticking in his throat, something making his eyes water. He wished that they would talk to him. He wished that he understood their jokes.   
He saw Draco whisper something in Pansy’s ear, saw her nod, looking at him. And then Draco stood up, wobbling slightly in the moving train, and cross the compartment to sit by Harry. “She was getting a bit sweaty,” he whispered to Harry. Harry knew that he was lying, so he smiled gratefully at Draco.  
The train rocked back and forth, lulling Harry slowly to sleep. His book fell to his lap. He head was resting on the back of the seat, and dangerously close to falling onto Draco’s shoulder. Harry felt warm all over, and everything faded away into sleep.  
He heard a noise which jerked him abruptly awake. He blushed when he realized that his head had indeed fallen onto Draco’s shoulder, and he moved it away quickly. He yawned. And then he realized that the noise had been the door opening, and that Neville Longbottom was standing in their compartment.  
Draco was sitting rigid beside him, and when Harry looked he saw a sneer fixed onto Draco’s face. All traces of laughter were gone. How did he do that? Harry wondered. It was uncanny. He looked like a different person. A mean, hateable person. Pansy was sneering at Longbottom too, and she looked even more pug-like than before. Were all Slytherins like that? Could they all do this? And why did Draco and Pansy seem to dislike Longbottom?  
“Sorry to bother you,” Longbottom said, flashing a smile. “Would any of you like my autograph?” he said with a smirk, sounding very pompous and puffing out his chest.  
Harry heard laughter from behind Neville that eventually turned into coughs and then someone choking loudly.  
“Ron!” someone snapped in a high-pitched, girly voice. “Shut up!”  
“You shut up!” Ron shouted. “You’re being louder.”  
Neville rolled his eyes. “Both of you shut up! You’ve ruined it.”  
The red-haired boy and the girl with bushy hair both peeked through the door on either side of Neville’s plump face. “Oh,” Ron said.  
“What do you want, Weasley.” Draco said. He said “Weasley” like it was synonymous with ‘slug.’   
Neville pointed at his scar. “You sure you don’t want one? I could even write a lovely little note for you. And a heart for you, Malfoy,” he said with a smirk.  
Harry couldn’t help staring at the scar. It was shaped exactly like a lightning bolt, red and hot against his forehead. Neville caught him looking and raised an eyebrow. Harry quickly looked away.  
“Why don’t you give an autograph to Weasley?” Draco asked, looking at his nails. (Which were gorgeous) “He could buy a sandwich with that, which is probably more than he’s eaten in a while.”  
Ron looked like he was thinking hard about something to say. “You know what, Malfoy?” he said, raising his fists.  
“What?” Draco asked, smirking. The smirk looked much better on his face than it did on Longbottom’s.  
Ron glared at him, opening and closing his mouth like a fish, and disappeared with a twist of his big orange head. Neville followed. Draco chuckled.  
The bushy haired girl stared at Harry for a split second longer, and Harry thought he saw her eyes dart to his forehead.  
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.  
Then she disappeared.  
And the train stopped.  
()()()  
“We’re here!” Pansy sang, jumping up and out of the compartment. Then she stuck her head back in. “See ya later, boys!” Harry heard her running down the hallway, until her footsteps mingled with the general noise of the train. The compartment felt empty without her bursts of laughter and her bright red hair.  
Harry barely knew her, but he missed her already.  
Harry and Draco gathered all of their things, and then filed slowly off the train with the rest of the students. Harry with his toad and Draco with Persephone. The train was crowded and hot, and Harry found himself squeezing awkwardly around people, much too close for comfort. He was pressed up close to Draco at one point, their faces only inches apart. It caused a strange fluttering in his chest.  
Harry felt eyes on him. Longbottom was staring. Harry frowned at him, and Longbottom looked away, and said something to Weasley and the bushy-haired girl, who were talking to him. The girl was looking at Harry again, with a strange expression in her eyes. Harry knew that he should feel annoyed at them. They had been very irritating on the train, after all, and Draco was glaring daggers at them. But as much as he tried to summon up some anger, it wasn’t there. He settled for simply ignoring them.  
“Firs’ years!”  
A giant man with a huge beard was waving his arms up and down. “Firs’ years!” Draco sighed, and he and Harry went over to stand by him  
“The gamekeeper,” Draco whispered into Harry’s ear, which gave him the chills. Harry smiled at him, grateful. He had absolutely no idea who any of these people were, so some information was definitely helpful.  
“Neville!” the gamekeeper called warmly over the sea of people. “Good to see yeh!”  
Longbottom, Weasley, and the girl came over and stood by him. Weasley glared at Harry and Draco, and Draco glared back.  
Pansy appeared with a huge smile on her face. “Are you excited?” she asked Harry. “I’m excited. I’m so excited,” she said, bouncing up and down on her feet. She continued to talk, babbling about how excited she was for Defense Against the Dark Arts class, and Care of Magical Creatures. Harry was still taking everything in.  
In the distance he could see the castle, majestic against the mirror of the lake, tall with spires twisting up into the sky. His heart fluttered again, his stomach felt like it was going to explode. Harry bounced up and down on his feet to expel some of his nervousness, but it didn’t help much.  
He was at Hogwarts.  
“Firs’ years, with me!” the giant gamekeeper shouted, and then they were following him to where a fleet of tiny rowboats were tied to the shore, and Hogwarts loomed in the distance. Harry stared around at all of the unfamiliar faces around him, all looking equally scared, and all chattering wildly.  
“Can you believe we’re actually…”  
“Oh my GOD I’m so nervous!!!”  
“Ew. I hate water.”  
Harry, Draco, and Pansy got into a boat together. It was a very tight space, and Harry was acutely aware of Draco’s knee, which was touching his. Pansy and Draco were sitting side by side, their bodies pressed up against each other, so a simple knee touching a knee didn’t mean much. But it still felt like a lot.  
The oars started churning, and Hogwarts got closer, and suddenly no one spoke, and everyone just stared. It was huge, and dark, and shadowy, and the way it perched on the edge of the cliff as if it was waiting to eat you… But it also seemed familiar. Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that he had been here before. He had seen it in pictures. That was probably it. The cliffs loomed closer, tall and sharp like knives. And then they had reached the shore. Everything was moving so fast.  
A small lady with a stiff bun and a serious face introduced herself as Professor McGonagall, and she led them into a room where they would wait to be sorted.  
Pansy pulled a Slytherin pin out of her pocket and pinned it to her shirt.  
“Confident, aren’t you?” Draco asked.  
Pansy just smirked. “Could you imagine me in Gryffindor?” she asked.  
After about twenty minutes of sorting, during which Harry attempted to read his Potions book and failed miserably, it was Longbottom’s turn. Harry could hear the entire Great Hall hold its breath, and he found that he was holding his too.  
The Sorting Hat thought for a long time. Longer than it had taken to sort anyone else, in fact. Then, finally, the Hat bellowed, “GRYFFINDOR!” and Longbottom went to join the bushy-haired girl (who Harry had learned, was named Granger), who was clapping rather unenthusiastically. The rest of the great hall was in an uproar.  
Draco ended up in Slytherin. Pansy did as well. And then it was Harry’s turn…  
“Ah. An easy one.” The Sorting Hat said. “Not very smart, I can see. Ravenclaw’s out of the question. But you’re definitely not suited for Hufflepuff. And I don’t see any Slytherin in you. Better be…”  
“GRYFFINDOR!” the Sorting Hat bellowed.  
Harry glanced at Draco and Pansy. They clapped for him, but Harry saw that neither of them would quite meet his eyes. Suddenly (and possibly irrationally), Harry wished that he had asked to be in Slytherin.  
Weasley was in Gryffindor too. He immediately sat by Granger and Longbottom, and Harry made sure to sit far away from the three of them. He introduced himself to several other people, but no one seemed to want to talk to him. They were all too busy catching up with old friends, and no one seemed to want to talk to another average Gryffindor first-year. At least, none that weren’t Longbottom, who was surrounded by ogling girls. Harry ended up listening in to the redheaded twins’ conversation about vomit-flavored beans, and trying to make sense of the strange pang of loneliness in his chest.  
Well, at least the food was good, he thought as he absent-mindedly chewed on a chicken leg. But it wasn’t as good when eating alone. He felt so small in the huge Great Hall full of people but no one to talk to.  
Dumbledore gave an announcement about third floor corridors and forbidden forests, and then Harry found himself following the rest of the Gryffindors to the dormitory. He looked behind him to try and catch Draco’s eye, but the Slytherin was gone.  
Harry definitely didn’t feel much Gryffindor spirit as he sat in the corner and was ignored by all the others. A few even glared at him, people that he hadn’t even talked to. And then there was Longbottom, the center of everyone’s attention, surrounded by adoring girls, swooning over his pudgy face. He wasn’t attractive. At least, Harry didn’t think he was. They were only surrounding him because he was famous.. But then again, they were still surrounding him. He would never eat alone.  
And then Granger tapped him on the shoulder.  
Harry realized that he had been brooding. He should have been a Slytherin. God, he should have asked the Hat to put him there. Screw whatever Mrs. Figg had told him. He wished he had a time-turner. He would rather be anywhere than here, and rather have anyone standing in front of him than Granger. She was staring at him with big, ridiculous, sad eyes, and twisting a strand of already bushy, curly hair around her finger.  
“Yes?” he asked, with distaste, not bothering to look up from his book. It wasn’t her fault, but anyone associated with Ron Weasley was generally dislikable in Harry’s mind.  
And why did he hate Ron Weasley?  
Because Draco did, of course.  
That made Harry angrier for some reason.  
She looked taken aback by his face, so Harry tried to erase some of the disgust from his features. Now that he thought about it, it was probably a good idea to be nice her. She hadn’t been mean to him, not really. He might as well have some friends that weren’t Slytherins.  
“Um,” she said.  
“Yes?” Harry asked again, getting slightly annoyed again. Was that all she had to say?  
She ran her fingers through her bushy hair. “I don’t know why but…” she bit her lip. “Well, can I sit by you?”  
Harry almost said yes, immediately. He wanted someone to talk to. But he raised his eyebrows, instead. Don’t know why? Don’t know why what? Because she feels bad for me? Or is this another bloody stupid prank?  
“Why?” Harry asked, with an accidental edge to his voice. He didn’t trust her motivations, but there was no sense in pushing her away if she really was being genuine.  
She stared at her feet. “Because you seem lonely,” she said, quietly.  
Well, she isn’t wrong.  
Harry was sorry for hating her. After all, she only wanted to be friends. So what if she had been talking to Ron? It was still the first day. That didn’t mean anything.  
“I’m Harry,” he said, and smiled.  
He could see her shoulders relax and a smile bubble over her face. “I’m Hermione. Nice to meet you,” she said. “What do you think?” she gestured at the crowded common room. “Of Hogwarts, I mean. It’s a bit overwhelming, I think. I mean… the pictures talk? And the food appears out of nowhere… and there are ghosts!”  
Harry nodded. “Yeah, it’s a lot to take in.”  
Hermione smiled. “Anyway,” she said, and bit her lip again, looking worried. “What I really wanted to said is: I’m sorry that everyone is avoiding you. I think…” she broke off.  
Harry smiled. “It’s okay.”  
“No, it’s really not. I just know it’s because you were talking to the Slytherins, and it’s so awful that anyone would avoid you just because of that,” she twiddled her thumbs. “You’re not supposed to be ignored.”  
Harry thought that was a strange way to say it, but he thanked her anyway.   
“Well,” she said, and her face brightened. “Classes tomorrow! See you then!”  
Harry watched her skip away up the stairs.  
()()()  
“Good morning, Draaaaco!” Pansy sang, swinging the door open with a bang and grinning sadistically down at him. Luckily, all of Draco’s roommates had already left for breakfast, but Draco still nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw her.  
Draco couldn’t even form his face into a proper sneer, because he was so mortified. He sat up, clutching the covers around him like an embarrassed girl. “What are you doing, Pansy? You’re not supposed to be in here! And I’m… in my pajamas!” he held out a pajama-covered arm to demonstrate.  
Pansy’s smile got even bigger. “I know!” she cried, clapping her hands together as if it was celebration. “Isn’t it wonderful? And, Draco, seriously? What are those… Peach? Peach pajamas? Honestly!”  
Draco glared at her.  
“Well, see ya later! I just wanted to tell you that it’s time for breakfast, that’s all!” she lied, closing the door quickly before he could hex her. Draco didn’t know any hexes, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. His wand was lying threateningly next to his bed, and Draco glared at it.  
“She can be so annoying,” he muttered to the fireplace.  
“I know the feeling,” the fireplace muttered back. “My wife, Lucy, is insane sometimes. Isn’t that right, Luce?”  
A lamp in the corner nodded enthusiastically.  
Draco groaned, walking to the bathroom to change. Why did everything have to talk in this place?  
When he got back to the common room, Pansy was there, talking to a very fat girl. Pansy abandoned the conversation when she saw Draco. She walked over to him and scowled at his hair.  
“What,” Draco said.  
“Oh, nothing,” she said with fake sweetness. “Want to go get breakfast?”  
Draco nodded, because he did. Part of him (a big part) wanted to see Harry. After their short train ride they hadn’t gotten to talk much, and now he was a Gryffindor. That was inconvenient.  
“Okay but just… try to be normal. Okay?” he said.  
“Fiiiine,” Pansy groaned. “Only if you can disguise your overflowing affection for me.”  
Draco glared at her.  
Pansy smiled sarcastically. “I hope it won’t be too hard on you,” she said, with a wink.  
Draco almost turned to leave, before he realized something and turned back. Pansy was smiling at him expectantly. “Was that…” he said, pointing his finger at her and glaring. “Was that an innuendo?”  
“Oh, no. Never,” she said, shaking her head so that her hair bounced around her face, and smiling at him innocently.  
“You’re impossible.”  
“You’re no fun. Wink.”  
“Shut up!”  
Draco and Pansy sat at the Slytherin table. Hardly anyone else was there, but Draco could see Harry’s messy hair from across the hall. He was sitting by Granger, Draco noticed with annoyance.  
When Draco thought about it, he wasn’t quite sure why he had shaken Harry’s hand. He had originally expected to speak to Neville first, after all, he was the famous boy who lived. Father would expect Draco to be acquainted with him; not for friendship (friendship was for mudbloods and Hufflepuffs), but for inside information.  
But then Draco had seen Harry and something, something made him hold out his hand. It felt right. The eyes. (He would deny it until the day he died, of course.)  
The eyes are the windows to the soul, Father had told him.  
Of course, he had meant it in a much more sinister way.  
But now Draco found himself wondering if it could be true. Because Harry’s eyes were green and bright and full of emotion and life, while Longbottom’s were small and dull, just another aspect of his average, pudgy face.  
“Dracy, you’re ogling him,” Pansy remarked causally, taking a sip of orange juice.  
Draco glared at her. “No, I’m not. I’m simply examining the Gryffindor table.”  
Pansy just smirked.  
People started flooding into the Great Hall. There was a buzz of excitement around the Gryffindor table that was most likely over Neville Longbottom, and Draco sneered at it.  
But then he caught Harry looking at him, and Draco smiled.  
()()()  
“... I can teach you to brew glory, bottle fame, and put a stopper… in death…”  
Harry wondered if Snape gave this speech every year.  
He was sitting in between Draco and Hermione, which was interesting because occasionally Hermione would whisper facts about potions into his ear in between Draco’s whispers about Weasley, and the marshmallows he could roast in his hair.  
Snape kept on asking unfair questions to Longbottom, or making remarks about “entitlement” and “celebrities.” Harry was just glad that his attention was on Longbottom, and not on him… but he couldn’t help feeling a little bad.  
()()()  
Harry didn’t like Quirrell. (He didn’t know why.)  
Just an odd feeling he got. Especially the turban. The turban made him shiver, when he wasn’t cold at all.  
He almost said this to Draco…  
But then he didn’t.  
And he was teaching them about vampires anyway, which were generally unsettling. It probably wasn’t the teacher, it was probably the moving pictures of white fangs sinking deep into throats that he kept showing them.  
Yes, that was probably it.  
()()()  
“Do you want to feed her?” Draco asked. They had left the Great Hall after scarfing down some sandwiches to go visit Persephone in the owlery. Harry was glad, because he liked being alone with Draco.  
The owlery smelled like dust and feathers. Harry smiled. He loved the owls. Harry held out his hand and Persephone nipped it with her beak. She was so proud and elegant, standing there with her scarlet wings outstretched. Harry nodded, took some seeds from Draco’s outstretched hand, and fed them to her.  
Harry watched Draco out of the corner of his eye. He hadn’t realized how warm his hand had been. He could still feel the heat, tingling in the tips of his fingers.  
At least, Harry thought so.  
Draco’s hand touched Harry’s arm.  
Accidentally.  
Draco moved it away, clenched his fists, rested his hands on the window, stuffed them in his pocket, chewed on his nails. He sneered and frowned and smiled and then just looked at the owls, so that Harry couldn’t see his face.  
That was confusing.  
()()()  
Hermione was in the library. She was in front of a stack of books taller than she was, and just staring at them, reading the titles over and over.  
Why had she picked these?  
She hadn’t.  
Her fingers had. She had been walking through the library and then, suddenly, she had been holding Albus Dumbledore: a Biography.  
Basic Alchemy.  
Your Guide to the Elixir of Life.  
Nicholas Flamel: an Alchemist.  
The Philosopher’s Stone: Fact or Fiction?  
And now she was staring at the titles.  
She knew something was wrong. As soon as she had gotten to Hogwarts she had felt it, but she had felt it before, too. Just little things, but not little enough to ignore. Like how she knew what a basilisk was, even though she was sure she had never read about them. And how a little diary in a bookstore gave her the chills just by looking at it.  
And when she had met Harry and Ron? It was like she knew them. She had gone up to Ron, almost without thinking, and started talking as if they were already in the middle of a conversation. And she had seen the scar on Harry’s forehead. It was not just a trick of the light.  
But it had to be. It was the only thing that made sense, and Hermione was a strong believer in fact. (But she still wrote all these things down.)  
And then he tapped her on the shoulder.  
“Ron!” she gasped, drinking in his fiery hair, his eyes, his face (She had a crush). She shook her head to clear her mixed up thoughts. “No. Read this!” she pushed one of the books into his hands. “And write down everything you read about the Philosopher’s Stone.”  
Ron stared at her.  
()()()  
And then it was Halloween.  
The troll stomped through Hogwarts, tearing down door frames and screaming portraits, overturning tables and spewing house elves out of windows. The students were huddled in the great hall, listening to his footsteps as it trudged through hallways, so loudly that the ground nearly shook.  
It was gone by midnight.  
The professors returned, exhausted and sweating, and announced that the students could return to their dorms.  
They did.  
Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. No one got hurt. The troll was locked away.  
The house elves were fine, by the way.  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: awkward silence, guts, and a new CHARACTER!


	3. Two - Troll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Troll guts, mega awkwardness, and new character! Hope you like :)

Three  
Troll  
-  
Quirinus Quirrell stared up at the troll.  
Huge. Grey. Skin like leather, with a bulging stomach and muscles twisting down its arms like vines. Even from behind bars, its strength was obvious. It could have crushed those bars like twigs if it had been smart enough to do so. It stared down at Quirrell like he was an ant, club still in hand, gnashing its teeth. Its dull little eyes glared down at him from so far above that Quirinus had to crane his neck to maintain eye contact.. Normally he would have been terrified, but the Dark Lord’s presence gave him courage. (And if he didn’t do this, he would regret it. The Dark Lord had made that clear.)  
Quirinus ran a finger down the iron bars, letting the frozen cold of the metal infect his skin, make him numb. He looked at the huge iron padlock - the only thing preventing the monster from escaping and destroying everything in its path. He didn’t hesitate.  
“Imperio!” he hissed at the man standing guard. Instantly, the man’s eyes glazed over. “Give me the key,” Quirrell ordered. The guard marched to Quirrell, limbs flailing crazily like he was a puppet, and placed the key in his hand. Then he crumpled to the ground.  
The Dark Lord laughed into Quirrell’s head. It echoed off of his mind, louder than life. Quirinus put his hands to his head, moaning with the sheer pain of it. He couldn’t ask the Dark Lord to stop laughing, he had to endure the pain. But it was excruciating.  
Finally, the laughter stopped. The Dark Lord started whispering urgently under his breath, slimy, vile things that made Quirinus nearly shiver. Quirrell checked that no one was watching, and undid his turban.  
“Well?” the Dark Lord screeched, high pitched, making Quirrell feel faint. “Open it!”  
Quirrell fumbled with the key, turning it awkwardly. His heart nearly stopped when it clicked, and the huge iron door swung open The giant was free. Towering above him with hunger it its eyes. Quirinus was frozen in front of it. His mind had turned into a swamp.  
“Cast the spell!” the Dark Lord screamed.  
Quirrell yelled, “Imperio!”  
The giant’s eyes didn’t change like most creatures’ did when placed under Imperio. They remained as blank as before, but it swayed slowly on its feet. Its arms brushed the carpet. They were the size of tree trunks. Quirinus backed away, afraid that it would fall over and crush him.  
Quirrell took a deep breath.  
“Kill Neville Longbottom,” he whispered.  
“AND?” the Dark Lord shrieked.  
“And Harry Potter,” Quirrell said. The Dark Lord laughed.  
The giant gnashed its teeth.  
()()()  
Harry woke up to screaming. He realized that his heart was throbbing uncomfortably in his chest, although he wasn’t sure why. He sat up, blinking groggily, unsure of anything but the incessant shrieking in his ears, and the dull thumping of something far away, getting steadily closer.  
And then someone grabbed his hand, and pulled him from his bed. Harry nearly stumbled, but someone caught him by the shoulders and held him upright.  
“Run,” hissed Ron Weasley.  
Harry just looked at him, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  
“Yes, I’m saving you,” Weasley hissed. “Don’t think it means anything sappy. There’s a bleeding troll on the loose.”  
Troll resonated with Harry. His instincts kicked in, and he pulled away from Ron, glancing briefly around for the safest exit. Nothing was disturbed in the dormitory, so he followed Ron down the stairs, with his heart pumping faster than he’d ever felt it before, and his legs moving so fast down the stairs that he was practically flying.  
It was empty, so Harry dimly realized that Ron must have gone back for him, but he shook all thoughts away and focused on running through the common room and peering cautiously out at the stairwell.  
There it was.  
Harry’s heart was pounding. He could feel it, and he felt like he was about to die. The troll was standing in the middle of the stairs, swinging its club around and around and sending it crashing through banisters and making chunks of stairwell fall to the floor. It was the size of a car standing upright, and its club was the size of a hippogriff, and Harry ducked back around the corner with his chest heaving with the effort of trying to breathe.  
Ron stared at him with panic in his eyes. “Bloody hell,” he whispered. “It wasn’t on the stairs when I went up here.”  
They ran to the window, and Ron pushed it open. They pulled over a chess table and pushed all the pieces off of it. The shattered on the floor and Ron winced, but he didn’t hesitate to climb up onto the ledge and look out at the Hogwarts grounds. The height was dizzying. It looked like nothing but a sea of green, and Harry shrank back against the ledge, afraid of falling. He turned back to check and make sure that the troll hadn’t climbed the stairs yet.  
And Harry’s eyes fixed on a girl, in the corner of the common room. She had her arms around her knees and was rocking back and forth as if that would save her. She looked up when he looked at her, staring at him from tear-stained eyes, from underneath curly dark hair and broken glasses.  
Harry straightened up.  
“Hey,” he said, running over to her and pulling her up onto her feet. “It’s okay. We’re all going to be okay. All we have to do is get outside. Come on.”  
She didn’t move.  
And Harry’s heart beat, faster and faster. He felt panic setting in, a different kind of panic, because here was someone who needing saving, but wouldn’t let herself be saved. Harry had no doubt that there was a way to get down, and that he would find it, but when he did he needed everyone to be with him. He grabbed her hands and held them in his, gripping them so tightly that it must have hurt.  
“Come on,” Harry hissed, pulling her away from the wall and to him, so that his arms were around her waist and her face was buried in his shoulder. “Come ON!” he yelled, pushing her away and shaking her by the shoulders. She bounced around like a ragdoll.  
Harry felt tears come to his eyes, because now he could hear the footsteps that made him shake like a drumbeat, made the ground vibrate, made the world shudder. And she wouldn’t move. She would die if she didn’t move. Why didn’t she understand that?  
“Move!” he screamed into her ears. “Run! Come with me!”  
She just stared at him blankly, like she was already dead.  
The troll’s footsteps got closer, got louder. So loud that Harry’s ears buzzed and he heart sank and his lungs stopped working. They were frozen, standing against the wall while they watched the troll emerge from the top of the stairs and break through the doorway like it was a sheet of parchment. It stared around the room, then its beady little eyes landed on Harry and it started forward, dragging its arms through couches and furniture and breaking them all to pieces. Harry’s nails were digging into her hand and he could hear himself screaming, but wasn’t aware that he was doing it.  
The troll raised its club into the air, high and higher and Harry’s heart stopped beating and he couldn’t do anything but watch as it fell back down, straight towards him. He couldn’t even think. He couldn’t even panic. But his wand was in his hand before he could understand what he was doing, and he was screaming and screaming, and somehow the word left his mouth.  
“EXPELLIARMUS!”  
The club flew out of the giant’s hand, hitting it in it’s own ugly face. It stood, swaying from side to side, until it started to fall backward. Slowly at first, and then it gained speed, toppling over into a heap on the ground. It sounded like a tree falling, it sounded like glass breaking, it made Harry’s ears ring.  
And then the floor started to creak.  
And crack.  
And floorboards split into pieces, and everything sounded like wood shattering and breaking, and suddenly the troll was gone. Nothing was left but a huge hole in the floor. A few seconds later, they heard a dull thud from the floor below.  
He slowly let go of the girl’s hand.  
Ron slowly climbed off of the window ledge, and closed the window.  
Slowly, they crawled carefully to the edge of the hole in the floor. Jagged, with floorboards sticking out like spears. Harry peeked over the edge.  
He nearly threw up.  
The troll was now a pile of a faintly pink substance that reminded him of raw ground beef except that the giant had red chunks in it, and some pieces of leathery skin. There was bright red pools of blood spreading from it. Harry saw people, far below, gathering around it and looking up, and pointing.  
“We’re okay!” Ron screamed down at them, waving his hands.  
()()()  
“I’m Harry Potter,” Harry said, while they were sitting in the hospital wing.  
Ron was talking to Longbottom. Harry had thanked him earlier, but he just grunted, so Harry shrugged and went to sit by the girl. She was still shaking slightly, and her eyes were wide.  
She looked at him. “I’m Anastasia Plum,” she said, offering a small smile. Suddenly, her eyes widened. “Don’t I know you? You’re…” she trailed off. “You’re in my charms class, right?” she finished, vaguely.  
Harry nodded, even though he didn’t remember ever seeing her before.  
“Nice to meet you. Thanks for saving me,” she said, smiling.  
“No problem,” Harry replied, smiling back.  
()()()  
“For astonishing bravery in the midst of a crisis… Harry Potter has earned twenty points for Gryffindor!” Dumbledore announced at breakfast, the next morning. Anastasia grinned at Harry from across the table. She had told Dumbledore about what had happened, and now Harry was sitting in the great hall twelve hours later, flushed with embarrassment.  
Everyone clapped.  
Harry found himself glancing over at the Slytherin table. At Draco. He was talking to Pansy, but when he noticed Harry looking at him he smiled, and gestured for him to come over. Pansy looked over and waved. Harry felt a smile creeping across his face.  
“Hey, Hermione?” Harry said, nudging her. She was deep in a conversation with Ron.  
“What?” she asked, turning to face him, looking extremely annoyed.  
“I’m… never mind,” he stammered when he saw the look on her face. Obviously, she wanted to continue her conversation.  
He headed over to the Slytherin table, not expecting everyone to turn around in their seats and stare at him. But they all did. There were a few glares, but also a few encouraging smiles.  
“What was that all about?” he asked, sitting next to Draco and stealing a piece of toast from his plate.  
“Well,” Draco said, chewing thoughtfully. “They’re probably very conflicted… because they hate anyone who associated with Slytherins, but you also saved them all from being gruesomely clubbed to death.”  
Pansy snorted into her hashbrowns.  
“Speaking of that… good job,” Draco turned and put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. He froze for a moment, seeming to think better of it but it was too late, so he settled for removing four fingers and leaving just his pointer, resting on Harry’s sleeve.  
Then he “coughed”, and pulled his hand away to cover his face like it was on fire. Harry thought he saw a smear of pink painting his cheeks.  
“Jesus Christ, Draco,” Pansy said, rolling her eyes dramatically. “And you didn’t believe me when I said you were ridiculously awkward around Harry.” She smirked at him. Harry stared at her, his mouth hanging open.  
Draco coughed louder, right into Pansy’s smug face.  
“Ew!” she complained, pushing him away.  
Then began a ridiculously awkward silence. Pansy tried to fill it by babbling about giants, and making snarky comments about Draco’s hair, but when neither Draco or Harry were talking it was hard to ignore. Harry found himself studying the back of Draco’s head (which was all he could see, because Draco had turned away to hide his red face) and realized that he really liked his blonde hair. It was pretty.  
“Potions,” Draco said, as soon as breakfast was over. “See you.”  
Harry stood to leave but Pansy held him back. When Draco was gone, she said, “Next time, please save your ridiculous awkward silence for when I’m gone,” she said it angrily, but when Harry looked back he saw that she was smiling.  
()()()  
Harry saw Anastasia again at lunch.  
“Hi,” he said.  
“Hello,” she said, still shaking. Her hair was messy and it fell into her face.  
He hugged her, and took her over to sit by him and Hermione. They immediately started chatting about Transfiguration homework. Harry smiled while they talked, glad that they were getting along. But then Hermione went to talk to Ron again, and Harry and Anastasia were left alone. He glanced over at the Slytherin table, but didn’t feel like sitting over there today.  
“Are you okay?” he asked suddenly, glancing over at Stasia.  
She nodded, biting her lip and looking at him from big brown eyes. “I feel better now,” she said with a small smile. “I still can hardly believe that all happened. It’s like a dream…”  
Harry nodded in agreement. “Me too. And I can’t understand how it got out! I don’t get how Dumbledore could let something like that happen. Wasn’t anybody watching it?”  
“I heard that the guard was sleeping,” Stasia said. “At least, that’s what Ernie MacMillan says. He said that they found him on the ground, and that he didn’t have any idea what happened.”  
“I hope a dementor sucks his soul out,” Harry said bitterly, not really meaning it.  
Stasia nodded. “Me too.”  
()()()  
Hermione and Ron went to the library after school, sat down in bean bag chairs, and started flipping through their dusty old books. Hermione had forced him to do it, of course, Ron would rather have been anywhere else than the library. But it was a good distraction, so that she wouldn’t have to think about what had happened yesterday. She could lose herself in dusty tomes and ancient stones and sneaking looks at Ron’s face.  
He groaned, putting down his book and scribbling down, 1608 - explodable toilet - Nicholas Flamel. She frowned at his handwriting, but didn’t comment. At least he was trying.  
“Wonder why that never caught on,” he grumbled at the picture of Flamel looking slightly burnt next to heap of rubble and a toilet seat.  
Hermione sighed and put down her book, Flamel - Ordinary Wizard, or Deranged Lunatic? “Ron, explodable items were unheard of in the seventeenth century. Flamel’s inventions transformed wizarding culture and contributed to...”  
“Who needs an explodable toilet, Granger? This book is a bunch of baloney,” Ron exclaimed, glaring at her.  
Hermione sighed, inwardly wincing from being called Granger. “Ron, we don’t need any information on exploding toilets. We need to know about the sorcerer’s stone!”  
“I think I already know enough about the sorcerer’s ruddy stone to make one myself!” Ron cried, slamming his book shut and catching the attention of several other students in the library.  
Hermione sighed, exasperated. “We don’t need to know how to make one. We need to know where it is,” she hissed. “And be quiet!”  
“It could be anywhere!” Ron nearly shouted. “It could be in America! It could be in Romania. It could be on the bloody third floor corridor of Hogwarts!” he threw the book down and crossed his arms. “I’m not…”  
But Hermione was staring at him.  
“What now?”  
“Ron, you’re a genius! I could kiss you!” she cried, and then a horrified expression spread over her face. “Forget that last bit,” she said, blushing, covering her face with the book.  
“What did I do?” Ron asked, utterly confused.  
“The third floor!” Hermione cried, beaming.  
“What..?”  
“Oh Ron, you’re so exhaustingly stupid. Come with me,” and she grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the library.  
()()()  
Draco and Pansy stood on the staircase and watched as Gryffindor tower was put back together.  
The stairs were a disaster. Pansy shuddered when she thought about how big something must have been to have done that. There were craters in the stairs that she had been told were the troll’s footsteps. The banister was gone. The ceiling was scratched where the troll’s head must have scraped it. And then there was the pink stain in the carpet. A bloodstain. She was careful not to look over the railing at it, because the height made her feel woozy. The stain was quite interesting, though. She hadn’t known that troll blood was pink.  
The professors were standing on the top of the staircase, lifting planks of wood with magic or transfiguring broken things into whole ones. McGonagall was standing at the top of the stairs, waving her arms and yelling orders.  
Pansy threaded her arm through Draco’s. “You all right?” she asked.  
He leaned his head on her shoulder. “I think so,” he said. She stroked his hair, and scowled when her fingers came out covered in sticky gel.  
“Seriously, Draco. Lay off the gel!” she said, wiping her hand on his shirt. “I don’t know why you persist in using it. The slicked-back helmet look certainly doesn’t do wonders for your complexion, you know.”  
“Hey!” he cried, slapping her hand away, glaring at her. “This is a good shirt!”  
Pansy looked at the shirt casually, smirking. “Doesn’t look very good to me.” (She was lying, it was a fine shirt.)  
He scowled at her and sank into a surly silence.  
“I do render you speechless, don’t I?”  
He didn’t answer.  
Then someone tapped her on the shoulder. She almost screamed, until she whirled around and realized it was Granger. And Weasley. She glared at him.  
He glared at her, but his wasn’t intimidating in the slightest.  
“What do you want?” Draco asked. He had his “you-look-like-a-slug-to-me” face on again.  
Granger could hardly spit the words out. They must have run all the way from the library, from the looks of the books she was holding. “Stone… In… third… floor…” she gasped.  
“Oh for god’s sake,” Pansy muttered. “We’re going to be here a while, aren’t we?”  
Granger glared at her.  
()()()  
Harry and Anastasia were watching the Quidditch practice. They were sitting side by side in the grass, and the sun was behind them, sending their shadows soaring across the field. The Gryffindor team was flying wildly in the distance, twisting and spinning like they were dancing. Harry watched them with hunger in his eyes.  
“I would have done Quidditch if Longbottom weren’t already Seeker, but there weren’t any other spots available,” Harry said, looking at the team wistfully. “I could be backup, I suppose. I’ll try out sometime.”  
Anastasia looked at him. “Yeah,” she said, in her soft voice. “I think you should.”  
“Really?” he asked. “I mean… I’ve never played. And it seems pretty dangerous...” he trailed off, letting all the reasons why he shouldn’t try out invade his mind.  
“Never mind the danger,” she said, looking intently into his eyes. “You should do it. I’m sure you’d be a natural.”  
He smiled at her. “Maybe I will.” He wasn’t sure if he meant it.  
Wood did a spectacular barrel roll, snatching the snitch neatly out of the air and doing a few celebration loop-da-loops. Harry whistled. “Wish I knew how to do that.”  
Anastasia put her hand in his, and Harry felt his stomach drop.  
Then Hermione’s face was blocking his view.  
“Oy!” he said, pushing her out of the way. “I can’t see!” And you’re ruining my hand-holding!  
Hermione scoffed. “Oh, you and your stupid Quidditch. This is much more important. Come with us. Now.”  
Harry looked, and saw Weasley, Draco, and Pansy all standing behind her. “What’s going…” A million possibilities all ran through his head, every one of them equally horrible. Many of them involved troll guts.  
“We know where the… oh, just come with us! I can’t say it in front of her,” Hermione gestured at Anastasia. Anastasia glared at her, and crossed her arms.  
Harry stood, unaware that he was still holding her hand, and that Draco was staring at it. “Anything you can say in front of me, you can…”  
“Shut up, Harry! This is important. You just met her, we can’t trust her. I don’t care,” Hermione said, when Harry opened his mouth to speak. She crossed her arms in defiance. Harry dropped Stasia’s hands, but he was still glaring at Hermione and he didn’t move.  
Draco looked like he was standing on the edge of a precipice, wondering if he should jump. His brow was furrowed and he was chewing on his lip. But then he stepped forward quickly, almost as if he wasn’t allowing himself to think, and took Harry’s hands. Harry felt something jolt up his arms, making his head tingle with electricity. All of a sudden Harry’s thoughts were quite confused. Just a moment ago he had been feeling… something. And now, he was feeling something else.  
Wow, what a great way to put it, Harry.  
But when Draco leaned closer, on tiptoes, to whisper into Harry’s ear, his brain turned into a mushy pile of goo. Harry felt Draco’s breath on the back of his neck and it sent a shudder of warmth down his spine. “We’ll tell you everything,” Draco whispered. “Do you think I would be tagging along with Weasley if it wasn’t important?”  
He leaned back and stared into Harry’s eyes, not letting go.  
“Stay here,” Harry said to Anastasia. Draco smiled.  
Anastasia nodded. She didn’t even look angry.  
And then Harry was back inside and running up the stairs. Hermione was holding his hand now, dragging him to the third floor corridor, with a grim look on her face and a book in her other hand. She was talking about some stone, and some wizard, and the third floor corridor, and Voldemort. Ron was behind her, carrying a stack of thick books, glaring at Harry for no apparent reason. Draco and Pansy were arguing about something, loudly.  
“Shush!” Hermione whispered. They fell silent. They walked to the end of the corridor, and Harry saw Hermione peer around the corner, and he heard her sharp intake of breath. When they looked around the corner, Harry saw Filch, frozen on the floor, with a look of pure, twisted rage on his face. His cat, Mrs. Norris, was frozen next to him.  
“Petrificus Totalus,” Hermione whispered. “Has to be. Someone’s already been here.”  
Something twisted in Harry’s gut. Just what were they doing?  
“Wow,” Ron said. He seemed impressed.  
No one seemed intent on unfreezing them.  
When they got to the door, it was already unlocked. “Someone’s just been here, too,” Draco said, scowling and opening it. Harry saw Hermione bite her lip, but she went in anyway.  
There was a shriek from the other side of the door, and Harry and the rest rushed forward to see what it was.  
A monstrous, slobbering, three headed dog. Grimacing, with all of its lips pulled back in a terrible snarl. Drooling, drops the size of Harry’s head landing with a squish on the floor. Enormous, with one of its heads brushing the three-story tall ceiling and paws that came up to Harry’s knees. Its teeth were bared and one of it’s heads had beady, yellow eyes fixed directly on the five of them. The other heads turned to join it. And it wrenched against its chain, with nails scraping horribly against the ground and tongues lolling hugely out of its mouths. It barked, and the sound echoed through the chamber, making Harry’s ears ring.  
What the fuck are we doing here?  
Hermione slammed the door. She turned to face them. “I’ll be honest. I didn’t expect that.”  
“I’m out,” Ron said, turning to walk away. Hermione grabbed him by the tie and yanked him back towards her, with surprising strength. Or perhaps Ron was just surprisingly weak. Either way, they collided in a rather undignified fashion, with Ron stumbling forward and knocking the breath out of her with an audible wheeze.  
He scrambled to get off her, but Harry saw that his cheeks were red.  
He would have found this funny if there was more separating them from a ferocious three headed dog than a flimsy wooden door.  
But there wasn’t.  
“Hermione…” Harry tried. “What the hell is going on? You have to tell us what we’re doing. Maybe we should get a teacher, you know? I’m not really sure about this…”  
Hermione put a finger over his lips, effectively getting him to shut up. “Trust me, Harry. I know what I’m doing.”  
“Maybe you do, but we sure don’t!” Ron complained. “Why are we here? And why the hell did I have to read all of those useless books about Nicholas Flamel!”  
“Flamel?” Draco echoed, eyes wide.  
Oh no. Don’t tell me Draco’s enough of a nerd to know who that is.  
“Nicholas Flamel? The wizard who discovered the elixir of life? Six hundred eighty-nine years old and counting? That Flamel?” Draco rattled off, sounding incredulous.  
Harry groaned.  
“Yes, Draco, that Flamel. Thank you for being even moderately competent,” Hermione said.  
Draco looked like he was trying to decide whether that had been a compliment or not.  
“Well,” she continued. “I… sort of… picked some books off the shelves and…” suddenly she looked very uncertain, even embarrassed, which did not seem like good news for whatever plan she had come up with. And why did they even need a plan? What the hell were they doing?  
“And he made a stone that brings eternal life and it’s here at Hogwarts and you-know-who is gonna steal it,” she finished, speaking so fast that Harry almost didn’t understand what she was saying.  
And as soon as he did, he wished he hadn’t.  
“So we get a teacher,” Ron said. “Right? Am I the only sane one here?”  
“But whoever went through here before us is probably working for you-know-who, and is probably going to try to steal it right now!” Hermione cried. “We have to go. I have an idea. Ron, you fetch a teacher. Harry, Draco, Pansy and I will go through.”  
Harry suddenly remembered that Pansy was there. She had been extremely quiet. When he looked at her, he saw that she was chewing her lip, looking lost in thought.  
“How do you know that this is true?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and leaning against the wall, looking for all the world as casual as if they were just deciding whether to go steal cookies from the kitchens. “Did someone tell you?”  
“Pans…” Draco tried. She glared at him.  
Harry narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out what was going on.  
Hermione looked even more embarrassed. “Er… no. It’s just, I kind of assumed that was what was happening because… well, it seemed like something that he would do, and the door is open…”  
Pansy cut her off. “So you don’t know.”  
It wasn’t a question.  
“Then we’re leaving. We’re not getting involved in your stupid little scavenger hunt. Come on, Granger. We’re first years! Even if you were right, there’s no chance we would be able to stop the dark lord from getting anything he wants. He’s got more power in his pinky finger than you’ll ever have in your wand, and that’s a fact.”  
Hermione stared at the ground. “You say it like you admire him,” she whispered.  
Pansy stared at her.  
Draco winced.  
Ron walked away.  
And then, faintly, from beyond the door, Harry heard screaming. High, dull shrieks of agonizing pain. Raw and hoarse and jagged. Harry ran to the door, putting his ear against it, which made the screams slice into his head like knives. His ears buzzed.  
“Do you hear that?” he whispered against the door.  
Everyone stopped talking. The silence was more deafening than the shrieks of pain from beyond the door. And, without even thinking, Harry flung the door open to stare straight into the yellow eyes of the enormous dog.  
Pansy screamed.  
Because it was dead. All three of its throats had been slit, and blood was rushing out. Dark and crimson, like flowing shadows in the darkness of the chamber. It’s eyes were open, but dull like glass. Its fur was matted and bloodstained. It was eerie.  
The screams were easily heard now. They seemed to cut into Harry’s mind, slicing his head open and ripping him into pieces.  
No one hesitated. They all entered the chamber, running past the carcass of the dog and into the next room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: not a job for first years.  
> Please review!


	4. Three - The Hidden Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this chapter is not as intense as some future chapters... it still gets a little crazy. Hope you like!

Three.  
The Hidden Man.  
-  
Stasia screamed when the man carried her away into the darkness, but it made no difference. He had wrapped his turban around her mouth and wrists. She couldn’t make a sound. But the cloth was hot and stifling, and she had to work hard to even breathe. Especially with the panic rising up in waves, and the shadows covering her like blankets, making her feel claustrophobic and want to run.  
“Why isn’t it working?” he asked. His voice was slimy. “Didn’t you say the the spell should start working as soon as you’re near enough?”  
Stasia realized that this must be Quirrell. It sounded like his voice. But what had happened to his stutter? And who was he was talking to. Did he have an accomplice? Were there more people hidden in the shadows?  
And what spell was he talking about?  
And why was Quirrell abducting her?  
And where was Dumbledore? And where was Harry? Where had he gone that he couldn’t even hear her scream? He had been right beside her only a few minutes ago. But even if he wasn’t, shouldn’t other people hear her? Shouldn’t someone see them from out a window?  
And then someone spoke. And the voice sent shivers of cold up her spine. It was deep, and wrong, like it wasn’t human. It made Stasia want desperately to scream, so that she kicked at the darkness covering her like a hot blanket, but Quirrell’s arms tightened around her and she couldn’t even move.  
“It will work.”  
“Are you sure?” Quirrell asked. “Because she still seems like she wants to get away…”  
The hidden man snarled. “What makes you think it is any of your concern? Take me to the stone. Bring the girl. Stick to the plan. The trap is laid, of course?”  
“The… trap? Which… one?”  
The hidden man screeched, “The other one, of course! You blundering idiot!”  
Anastasia screamed from under the gag, her ears ringing with pain. His voice was so loud.  
“Y-yes, master. The elf is ready. Longbottom will be in the chamber shortly. Everything should go to plan.”  
“SHOULD?!” the hidden man screamed, making Anastasia scream along with him. Her mind was swimming. She couldn’t think. Everything hurt. She twisted and struggled in Quirrell’s grip, writhing like she was on fire.  
“That should have worked. Why is she still…?”  
“My lord?”  
“Ah. I see. I picked the wrong idiot muggle child. No matter. This will still work perfectly. I have a new plan, now, Quirrell! More beautiful than ever before.”  
“Sh-shall I tell the elf to…”  
“NOT THAT PLAN, fool! A greater plan. My plan. Foolish, weak-minded piece of scum, you couldn’t even wrap your puny mind around it. Now! To the chamber.”  
Quirrell lifted the unconscious Anastasia from the ground, then floated her behind him with a spell, making sure that she hit her head on every step as they ascended the stairs to the third-floor corridor, unlocked the door, and walked inside.  
()()()  
When Neville walked into his room to get his transfiguration textbook, there was a man sitting on his bed. He was a short man. Three feet, probably. Wearing a towel. Facing away from Neville, towards the wall.  
And then, Neville realized that it was not a man at all. It was a house-elf. And it was muttering urgently to itself, waving its ridiculous ears around, so it evidently hadn’t realized that he was there.  
Neville sighed. It probably wanted to give him some food for saving the world from you-know-who, or maybe get his autograph. House elves were such obnoxious creatures. Neville examined it, weighing his options. He could kick it out the window, that was tempting. Or maybe just dangle it upside down by its ears.  
Neville crept forward silently. The floor squeaked once, but the house elf must have been completely deaf, because it didn’t hear him. Kicking a deaf elf wouldn’t be quite as fun, but Neville wasn’t about to let it go without a good beating. After all, house elves were just animals. They didn’t really feel pain.  
Neville was so close now that he could place two hands on his bed, leaning forward towards the elf. Should he scare it? Maybe scream, and make it jump? Neville grinned wickedly to himself, opening his mouth to shout.  
All he managed was a grunt.  
Because the house elf spun around, eyes bulging like tennis balls in its head, and Neville was frozen. He couldn’t move. He tried to yell, but his mouth wouldn’t open.  
Neville tried to summon some of his famous Gryffindor courage. It was only a house elf, after all. Actually, he wasn’t even scared. Of course he wasn’t. He could push it over with his pinky finger.  
There was the tiny little problem of Neville being frozen… but house elves weren’t known for their exceptional magical abilities. All that Neville had seen them do was Apparate. So even if this particular elf was able to hold him frozen in the air above his bed, it wouldn’t last long.  
That was what he thought, until the house elf started to lift his frozen body towards the ceiling. Then it was walking silently down the hallway, with Neville floating along behind. He wanted to scream curses at the filthy thing. What the hell did it think it was doing? He was a human. He was a wizard! He was its rightful master! How dare it do this to him?  
And why? House elves loved serving wizards. They were that bloody stupid! So why would this one suddenly decide to turn rogue and float the boy who lived down a hallway?  
Neville, having given up the let’s-just-hope-it’s-shit-at-magic approach, was now hoping for someone to appear in this hallway and notice him being floated down it. But no one did.  
Then they were walking up stairs. Three sets of stairs, to be precise. Three very specific sets of stairs which just happened to lead to the third floor corridor.  
And Neville started to panic.  
So an elf had gone insane, and was planning to kill him. And he was frozen. And no one was going to notice. And he would be thrown into the third floor corridor, frozen, to starve slowly to death. Or maybe tortured nicely before being pushed out of a window. Or perhaps just being Avada Kedavra’d to oblivion.  
The elf opened the door.  
Neville wished that time would slow down. This whole thing was happening so fast.  
It was dark. They walked for what seemed like forever, but Neville couldn’t see an inch of it.  
Then, suddenly, there was fire. Neville blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the light. Slowly, he became aware of a mirror at the end of the corridor, and something lying on the floor, in the shadows. Something crumpled and broken and in a heap.  
A girl.  
In the dancing red light of the flames, Neville caught a glimpse of curly brown hair, shattered glasses, blood. Then he recognized her. Plum.  
“Very good, Pickles. Thank you.”  
The blood chilled in Neville’s veins. Cold started to spread through his body, making him go numb and making his thoughts freeze in his head. All he could do was watch it happen.  
The house elf bowed, ears sweeping the ground.  
And then the speaker stepped into view beyond the fire, the light making his skin glow eerily red, making his eyes look like embers burned into his skull. His eyes were slits. He was a snake, there in the red of the flames, there in the darkness of the chamber. And he reached up a finger towards Neville’s face.  
He was powerless.  
Voldemort snapped his fingers.  
Everything went black.  
()()()  
Walking through the third floor corridor was easy. Several empty rooms, a chessboard, a pile of broken keys. It was all very strange, but Draco wasn’t about to take time to puzzle it out.  
He was still confused about what the hell they were doing here, but Granger had seemed quite enraged about it. And, if her story about the dark lord wanting the stone was true, then there wasn’t any time to be confused. It was just hurry up and get your asses to the stone or the dark lord returns.  
So Draco just followed the rest as they went through the corridor.  
He didn’t even allow any emotions to get through. He wasn’t afraid. He was a Malfoy. He was a brick wall. A rock. (Or perhaps he hadn’t quite realized what was going on yet. The adrenaline rush was extremely effective in preventing rational thought from getting in the way, as well.)  
And then they reached the final room. Draco was last through the door, and his breath caught in his throat. Huge. Vast. He wouldn’t have thought that there was space for a room like this in Hogwarts, but here it was. Dark, with shadows stretching to the ceiling. Unlit sconces hung from the walls. And, at the very end, a mirror.  
“Weird,” Pansy whispered into his ear.  
“Tell me about it,” Draco replied.  
Pansy snorted. “Am I the only one who thinks that she,” she jabbed a finger in Granger’s direction. “Is a bit off her rocker?”  
Draco laughed awkwardly, not really finding it funny because he didn’t think that she was off her rocker, and that was bad news for them. Pansy didn’t seem to notice, because she just smirked.  
They followed a bit behind the others, steps echoing too loudly on the cold floor. Down a few stairs and nearing the mirror, in some sort of reverent silence, as if speech would disrupt the stillness of the room. Pansy had stopped speaking after they descended the staircase, and Draco could see her eyes sweeping the room like a hawk’s, probably checking for danger, as Slytherins were accustomed to doing.  
Draco copied her, glancing up into the vaulted ceiling and into the shadows in the corners. It was all a bit unsettling, too quiet and too dark for his liking. And there was the thought that something had come in here before them and slaughtered the dog, and yet it was nowhere to be seen.  
And that Granger thought that the dark lord was here.  
And all of a sudden Draco felt himself beginning to panic. This wasn’t right. Why was he here? If the dark lord was here, he would see Draco and tell his father, and Draco would be killed. Or perhaps the dark lord would just kill Draco himself. And Draco didn’t want to die. He felt his hands begin to shake, so he felt around wildly for Pansy’s hand, but it wasn’t there.  
But suddenly, Harry’s was. He appeared at Draco’s side, and slipped his hand into his. Draco felt his heart thumping wildly, and he knew that it was because it was still panicking, but it seemed like the warmth from Harry’s hand was making it beat a million times faster. Harry looked up and their eyes met, and Draco’s breath jumped around in his throat and his eyes danced over Harry’s face, tracing his nose and his chin and his eyes.  
“This is a bad idea,” he whispered to Harry. “We should go.”  
Harry, oddly enough, smiled. “You can if you want, but I’m staying. I have to,” he explained. Badly.  
But why? Why did he have to stay? Why couldn’t they go get a teacher? This wasn’t a job for first years. Especially not first years will little to no knowledge of magic because they didn’t pay any attention in class because one of them was too focused on staring at Harry to learn anything. Especially not any first years who were slowly turning to a squishy mess of panic, only being held together by Harry’s hand.  
“No you don’t,” Draco whispered.  
Harry just smiled again, and squeezed Draco’s hand, sending warmth shooting up into his heart, making him shudder.  
Draco jumped when he heard Hermione’s voice, loud and angry. “Where is it?” she said, sounding exasperated. “It has to be here. Where is it?” she kept walking around and around the mirror. If Draco was in the mood for snarky comments, he would have said that she was using the stone as an excuse to check her hair.  
Harry and Draco stood by stupidly, watching her.  
Pansy was looking at the mirror. “Why do you think this is here, Granger?” she asked, actually sounding genuinely curious. “Why put a mirror in an empty room?”  
Hermione paused in her pacing, turning to stare at Pansy. “Good… point,” she said, sounding reluctant.  
Pansy smirked.  
Hermione rolled her eyes, then turned back to the mirror. “It does have writing on the top… something… erised? I don’t know what that means, though.”  
“It’s ‘desire’ backwards,” Draco said unhelpfully, smirking when Granger glared at him.  
“Thanks for pointing out the obvious, Malfoy.”  
“It’s what I’m best at, Granger.”  
Hermione rolled her eyes again. “Anyway. One possibility is… well, mirrors are good for breeding dark creatures. Several spells can be chanted, and then the creatures will emerge from the mirrors surface… but that can only be performed at certain times of year, like an equinox or a full moon,” she said, sounding like a page from out of a textbook.  
“Is today a full moon?” Harry asked.  
Pansy shook her head. “No. But the mirror is much more likely to be an alternate dimension. It would take very impressive dark magic, but this mirror could already have some sort of magic which would make it easier. Then, powerful wizards could enter the mirror and wait for the perfect moment to… emerge…” she trailed off.  
No one spoke.  
Harry let go of Draco’s hand, leaving him feeling suddenly very cold. Harry ran forward, putting his hands on either side of the mirror and attempting to lift it. “Then why not just break it?” he asked, pulling it to its side, making it dangerously close to toppling over.  
“No!” Hermione cried, making Harry drop the mirror back down with a clunk. “They’ll feel you moving it!”  
And the mirror melted.  
Pieces of glass seemed to peel off and fall to the floor, breaking into the pieces, and the mirror fell backwards onto the floor, as if some invisible ghost had pushed it over. The crash echoed throughout the room like a bell, ringing ominously again and again and again. And beneath the glass was nothing but darkness.  
They jumped back, starting to run, but it was too late.  
Draco saw the turban first. Rising up out of the mirror in a blaze of smoke, and then he felt the searing heat as the room lit on fire and they were surrounded. Quirrell’s eyes emerged from the darkness and he winked at Draco.  
And all Draco felt was the wild, awful stomping of his heart in his chest and the ruined, painful sounds of his own broken breaths. And Quirrell raised his hand, and a jet of light flashed, and everything went dark.  
()()()  
Harry was screaming. It never stopped. His throat was being ripped into pieces, every breath hurt, and yet he couldn’t stop screaming as Quirrell rose up out of the mirror. It was so wrong and so fucked up that Harry’s heart was going to explode and he was going to go insane.  
Quirrell raised his hand towards Draco, and Harry’s heart stopped.  
Don’t touch him. Don’t you dare touch him.  
A jet of light, and Draco was on the floor. Harry didn’t even know if he was still alive.  
Another, and Pansy dropped to the ground beside him. Harry never stopped screaming.  
Hermione tried to hide, tried to run, but she fell with a sickening thud against the stairs.  
Harry braced himself. He wouldn’t mind, really. He wanted this whole nightmare to end.  
But it never came.  
Harry opened his eyes, still cringing into himself, waiting for a blow. Quirrell was standing in front of him. The smoke was billowing around his face. “Looks like we don’t need the girl after all,” he said. “Potter brought spares!”  
“He is never without his useless little minions.”  
Harry barely understood the words, because the voice seemed to carve into his skull, turning him inside out and making him scream. It was like a knife. It was sharp, it was high-pitched, it was crawling and ragged and familiar.  
A flash of green light.  
A horrible, piercing scream.  
Harry’s mind was playing tricks on him. He was going crazy. He blinked, he swayed on his feet. He couldn’t handle this. His body couldn’t take this. He thought he was shutting down. He couldn’t even breathe.  
“Don’t let the boy die, Quirrell!” someone shouted, dimly and bloody in Harry’s ear. “We need him to get the stone!”  
“We do? But how will he know where it…”  
“He will, Quirrell. And don’t question my orders, or as soon as I get my own body, you’ll be sorry you defied me!”  
There was a crack of knees on wood, and then Harry felt rough, painful fingers on his face, touching his eyes, pulling his hair. Suddenly he could feel his body leaving the ground, and an unnatural warmth covering him like a blanket. His eyes were opened, and he found himself staring into the mirror.  
“Tell me what you see, Potter, if you want your friends to live,” Quirrell said, from somewhere behind him, Harry lifted his chin, swallowing hard, looking into the mirror.  
He could see someone beside him.  
Was that… Neville Longbottom?  
Harry jerked his head to the right, and caught a glimpse of brown hair, pudgy cheeks, deepset eyes, before his head was yanked back towards the mirror. Where had Longbottom come from?  
And someone else, now.  
Anastasia.  
Harry jerked his head to the left. He saw her broken glasses, her curly hair, her eyes darting to meet his, full of panic. His head was yanked back towards the mirror again, but Harry wasn’t going to stay quiet this time.  
Harry opened his mouth. He yelled. “Let her GO!” he shouted. “Let us GO!” suddenly, his courage had returned when he saw her. “What the HELL are you DOING? What did I DO to YOU?!” He could see himself in the mirror, bruised, shaking, but screaming at the top of his lungs.  
And behind him.  
The pale, white, smiling face of…  
Cold. Harry didn’t have time to feel panic because he was suddenly so cold. Creeping, slimy, making goosebumps appear on his arms, making his skin feel clammy. And his forehead started to burn, slowly, strangely. Harry didn’t understand it. Everything was so overwhelming, he didn’t know what to do.  
He focused on looking at Anastasia. The bruises on her cheeks made him want to punch something. The look in her eyes made him want to hug her close. Then, slowly, someone else appeared into view. Like mist at first, but slowly becoming the shape of Pansy Parkinson. She looked angry. She looked proud, there in her Slytherin tie with the fire glowing on her face. She had one eyebrow raised at him, as if daring him to lose courage. Her hair was brighter than the flames. Harry could see his own reflection in her eyes.  
Beside her came Hermione. She walked into view, and her hand slipped into Pansy’s. Her hair was bushy and big, her eyes were brown and soft. She smirked slightly, raising an eyebrow like Pansy.  
“What do you SEE, boy?” Quirrell demanded. “Tell us!”  
Harry’s breath caught in his throat.  
Draco had appeared behind Pansy. He walked to her left, intertwining his fingers with hers. His eyes met Harry’s, the same eyes from the train, from the boat, from the Slytherin table. The first person Harry had spoken to at Hogwarts. The one who had taken his hand.  
Who made Harry’s heart beat louder than Anastasia ever could.  
Harry opened his mouth to speak.  
“I see the stone,” Neville said, interrupting him. Harry shut his mouth. “I… I’m holding it up like a trophy. And beside me is the elixir of life, and I’m drinking it. I’m immortal!” his voice was quiet, full of awe.  
He must be lying. We’re looking into the same mirror, idiot.  
Voldemort hissed, like a snake. It wormed its way into Harry’s head, slipping down his veins, freezing his blood. “Stupid boy,” he hissed. “Quirrell, dispose of him.”  
Harry briefly saw Longbottom stiffen, saw his eyes widen, and then there was another flash of light and he had fallen to the ground. Harry dared to move his head to the side, just enough to meet Stasia’s eyes for a moment, and then his head was jerked back into place. He gritted his teeth, trying to struggle against it, but he couldn’t move a muscle for more than a moment.  
Voldemort laughed. “Harry, Harry, I have missed you. Won’t you tell me what you see in the mirror this time, Harry? No lying. I already know what you’ll say, so don’t bother,” his voice became dark and dangerous. Harry would have shivered if he could have moved.  
Harry stared at the mirror, deciding that truth was the best option. His head was spinning, but he tried to pull himself together enough to form words. “I see Pansy, Hermione, and Draco,” he said, trying to keep his voice was shaking. They smiled at him, but all Harry could do was stare and try not to throw up. “They’re smiling at me. They’re…”  
Harry stopped.  
“What?” Voldemort demanded, making Harry feel cold all over. “What are they doing?”  
Harry stared at the mirror. Now it looked like they were saying something, over and over. Harry squinted, but he couldn’t understand the word. Hermione looked to be shouting it, screaming it over and over, but that certainly didn’t help. He must have looked confused, because Pansy facepalmed.  
“They’re saying something. I can’t tell what it is,” Harry explained.  
“What?” Voldemort repeated. “He’s lying! That’s not what he’s seeing!” he screeched, making his words echo painfully off the ceiling. Beside Harry, Anastasia shook. “He’s seeing the stone! He’s putting it in his pocket! Quirrell, search him!”  
Anastasia whimpered slightly.  
Suddenly Harry felt hands on his waist, his arms, his chest. He struggled, but nothing happened. He panicked, and suddenly he couldn’t even breath. Everything was fading…  
“QUIRRELL!!!!”  
A light. A presence, something grabbing him and forcing him back to painful reality. Harry shot a glance at Anastasia, and she was staring at him. He looked back at the mirror, trying to ignore the hands that were now twisting painfully at his arms, perhaps to keep him anchored, to prevent him from passing out again. Harry felt like a boat in the middle of a hurricane, just trying to ride out the storm.  
He looked into Draco’s eyes.  
But now Draco was pointing at a word, written in fire from Hermione’s wand. He was screaming it at the top of his lungs, too.  
Reficio.  
Harry didn’t think. He just yelled.  
“REFICIO!”  
Quirrell’s hands jerked away. Harry saw, in the reflection, the real Pansy Parkinson getting to her feet.  
“REFICIO!”  
Hermione stood up.  
“REFICIO!”  
And Draco stood, too.  
Harry smiled.  
“FREEZE! OR HE DIES,” Voldemort shouted, screamed, making Harry’s ears ring. Quirrell’s back was facing him now, Voldemort’s face was towards him. Harry’s blood curdled. His heart beat painfully in his chest.  
Voldemort was breathing hard now. He looked angrier than Harry would have thought humanly possible. “Give me the stone, Harry. Or I will kill you, and everyone else in this room.”  
Harry couldn’t breathe. He didn’t have it! He wouldn’t have been able to handle the effect of the fear on his eleven year old body if it wasn’t for the painful hands digging into his forearm, and the wand poking painfully into the underside of his chin.  
Something glowed red.  
Anastasia, holding out her hand to Voldemort. In it, the stone, bright as blood.  
“NO!” Pansy, Hermione, and Draco screamed.  
Harry didn’t have the energy to do anything but watch as Quirrell snatched the stone out of Stasia’s hands. There was a burst of smoke, and the fire went out.  
Harry’s body was suddenly released. He managed a sigh of relief before he collapsed to the floor.  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Letters, the owlery, and a filthy, queer little half-blood.


	5. Four - Letters

Four.  
Letters.  
"Neville! Mr. Longbottom! Could I have a quick word with you, please?" Neville turned from the group of adoring fans following him around to see who had spoken. It was Rita Skeeter, running down the hallway, looking ridiculous in a skirt and high heels.  
"Of course!" Neville replied, glancing at his fans, smiling at their matching looks of amazement, that reporters just came up to Neville and asked to have words with him. Neville smirked. It was only right, he was the boy who lived, after all.  
He followed Rita to an unused classroom. She sat down across from him, getting out her clipboard and a pen. She adjusted her scarf, her hair, and her glasses, cleared her throat, applied some lipstick, and then clasped her hands and took a deep breath.  
"I apologize for not speaking with you earlier, Mr. Longbottom. I understand it's been a week since the events in the third floor corridor?" she began, holding her pen over the paper like a hawk waiting to strike.  
Neville nodded. "A week, yes. Feels like years," he added.  
Rita nodded sympathetically. "I would have come sooner, but they just would not let me in! Security, or some ridiculous excuse like that. As if I would ever seek to harm a student!" she lowered her voice. "Now, Neville. If you wouldn't mind retelling the events of that day? We've heard bits and pieces, but never the whole story. With things such as this, it's important that the public hear everything, of course? And from such an important witness as you…"  
Neville nodded. "Yeah, I guess."  
Rita nodded enthusiastically. "Now, could you please tell what happened in your own words? Just the basic line of events. Not too many details yet, that can come later. And I hope this isn't too traumatic for you to relive…"  
Neville shook his head. "No, no, I think I can manage."  
Rita nodded slowly, looking very sad indeed. "Alright, then, you may begin."  
Neville cleared his throat. "Well… There's this thing. Called the… Magician's Stone, I think? I read about it in the library, and I found out that it was in the third floor corridor of Hogwarts. You-Know-Who was planning to steal it, because it would bring him eternal gold, or something. And then I did some spying, and found out that this guy called Quirrell, who was a teacher, was actually being possessed by You-Know-Who…"  
Rita's pen was writing so fast that her parchment began to smoke.  
"And I followed him into the corridor. There was this huge three headed dog, and I killed it. And then there was this mirror, and he made me look into it and I got the stone, somehow, and then I made him… go away, and he totally didn't get the stone."  
Rita nodded seriously from behind her parchment. "Yes, that's what I thought must have happened. Of course, you would be the one to defeat him, for the second time. Very brave of you. That mythical Gryffindor courage isn't a myth after all! Oh, that's quite good. I might use that," Rita tapped her pen thoughtfully against her chin.  
Neville smiled, not thinking about the fact that Potter had been there too. Or that his entire story had been lies. The stone couldn't be that important, surely? It couldn't be a big deal...  
He also tried not to think about the fact that it was important enough to be guarded by a giant three headed dog.  
"Now, I just need a picture. Look… victorious," she smiled at him, adjusted her glasses, and snapped a picture. "Good! Perfect. I think I'll call it… Neville Longbottom, Savior of the Wizarding World, Again!"  
()()()  
Draco sat on a dirty stool in the owlery, perched like a bird, reading a letter over and over. It was very un-Malfoy of him to be here. This place was dirty and dusty, but it smelled like life and feathers. Not like Malfoy Manor. That place smelled like flowers. Fake flowers that made him want to be sick.  
Speaking of un-Malfoy… Draco grimaced and crumpled the paper up. Again. (That was the fifth time.) And then he uncrumpled it and read it again. It was a stupid idea, a stupid thing. He was angry at himself for writing it. It had made him feel better for ten seconds, and then he had been angry up in the owlery for at least an hour.  
He looked out the window to distract himself. From here, he could see the grounds. He could see the forest. He could see the Aurors running back and forth in a panic, the reporters waving around cameras, an occasional student or two trying to leave and being sent back by a professor.  
The school was in lockdown. No one was allowed to leave. No one was allowed to enter. Harry had told them that Voldemort was gone, but Dumbledore still insisted on keeping everyone here. It made Draco feel anxious. It made him feel claustrophobic.  
Apparently the Dark Lord had the sorcerer's stone. Apparently he would be able to resurrect himself with it. Draco didn't know how to feel about that, but he pretended like he was feeling happy in front of his classmates. He didn't know if happy was the right word, but it was the only one to come to mind. It didn't matter. Either way, it made him feel sick to smile. But he had to do it, he did it anyway.  
Persephone screeched as she flew into the owlery carrying a letter. Oh, right. Draco had sent a letter to his father. Something like… Something. What had he sent? That must have been an eternity away. It was probably something stupid and small like Potions homework.  
Draco untied the letter.  
Draco.  
There's a spell on this letter. It will burn anyone else who tries to touch it. It will also burn up in about ten minutes, so read quickly.  
The stone is nearly ready to resurrect the dark lord. The elixir of life must be made, and then he will be born out of a cauldron, in his new body. That should happen tomorrow at the latest. Don't forget, Draco, he will always be watching. As long as he is here, nothing is safe. You must be careful Don't talk to anyone who isn't on our side. Don't associate with anyone the Dark Lord doesn't trust. He's angry. He feels that we have all betrayed him. He might take out his anger on you. You have to be as good as you possibly can. Be someone he can use, someone he needs. You need to be valuable to him. Then, if Lucius messes up, he won't hurt you because of it.  
I'm so sorry that you have to deal with this. This is too much pressure for an eleven year old. But, Draco, remember. This is war. Nothing is simple anymore.  
Love,  
Narcissa.  
Draco wiped the tears out of his eyes and watched as the letter burst into flames. The owls screeched in fear. Persephone nuzzled his shoulder.  
The tears returned.  
Stupid tears. How was Draco supposed to pretend to be happy when he was crying all the time? He was supposed to be the son of Death Eater, now more than ever. And it hit him in waves, like it had all day, the fact that now everything had to change. The dark lord was back, so Draco couldn't be friends with Harry anymore. He couldn't steal glances at him from across the great hall. He couldn't wave at him when they met in the hallway, or smile during Potions class.  
Tears burned in his eyes.  
Draco wiped them away.  
But if he was caught with Harry, the thought of what would happen was enough to keep him away. And what would happen to his mother… his father… no, Draco wouldn't disobey. Besides, he barely knew Harry. School wasn't even halfway over yet. And Draco had Pansy.  
And besides, without knowing Harry, would any of this even have happened to him? Would he be crying right now? Maybe not. Probably not. Perhaps it was better that he stay away.  
It didn't matter.  
He had to.  
So as soon as he went downstairs, he would be cold. He would be cruel. He would ignore Harry's pleading looks and his bright green eyes, and he would walk right by. He would be a Malfoy. He would be a death eater. And over time, Harry would forget about him.  
That last thought made more tears fall. Draco wiped them away again.  
The door opened.  
Draco turned wildly, almost falling off his stool. He stared at the door, eyes wide, looking like a deer in the headlights.  
It was Harry. He smiled, and pushed back his bangs in a way that was infuriatingly adorable. Draco's heart pounded with such an ache in his chest.  
"Hey," Harry said with a shy smile.  
"Hi," Draco said, pretending to look happy, like everything was fine. He was good at pretending, he realized, because Harry didn't notice anything was wrong. That ached more. Everything ached. He felt like a week-old wound, not bleeding, but still painful.  
Harry sat down on a stool across from Draco. Suddenly he was reminded of the train ride. It all made anger flare up in him, but he hid that too. It was so easy. Draco wished that it wasn't so easy. That Harry could tell that he was hurting, and aching. But he was just too good at masks.  
Anger turned to sadness, because this was the last time he would be able to speak to Harry like this. It had to be.  
He might as well make it count.  
Some things couldn't be denied. Perhaps… perhaps...  
Harry's knee brushed his and Draco's heart did that annoying thing. Harry smiled and took his hand, and said, "So, how are you feeling? Are you alright?"  
Draco nodded, lying. Because his heart was beating so fast, and he was so…. Sad, and angry, but happy, because Harry was here. And he definitely didn't feel alright. He felt the opposite. He felt like he was about to cry.  
"Its okay if you're not," Harry said, quietly. "I'm not, not really. I pretend to be, but I'm really not."  
Oh.  
At first, Draco had noticed. Had seen the droop of Harry's shoulders when they were together in the hospital wing. The shaking of his hands when they returned to classes. But a few days ago, he had thought that Harry was feeling better. And he didn't condemn him for that, that was a good thing. But perhaps he had been wrong.  
Draco didn't know how to feel about that.  
Harry scooted his stool close and leaned his head on Draco's shoulder, and now everything was spiraling out of control. Because they were so close and they were only eleven, and Draco felt like he couldn't deny this any longer because he would regret it for the rest of his life.  
The next day, he swore, he would pretend to hate him. He had to and he would. But not now. Now, he had five minutes in the owlery. Just five minutes. What was the harm? Draco's heart was beating, and he was hurting, and he just wanted something to stop him from aching.  
He kissed him.  
And it wasn't anything special. Just a little peck on the lips, because they were still eleven and scared. And Draco was terrified that Harry would turn away or punch him or… kiss him back.  
He pulled back and looked into Harry's eyes. His heart was pounding. He shouldn't have done that. Why had he done that? Harry would hate him.  
Well, that would make it easier for Draco to hate him back.  
He didn't want to die.  
But Harry didn't say anything. He just stared, and Draco knew that there were probably a million thoughts running through his head, just like in Draco's. Every second made him want to run, want to leave, because Harry probably had never felt what Draco had, and he was probably going to tell Draco that he was a fool and Harry would never feel that way. Because Harry was probably normal and he didn't have these feelings around other boys. He would probably rather kiss Granger, or Plum. Why would he want to kiss Draco, when he could kiss them?  
Harry smiled, all of a sudden. Draco felt his heart thumping through his chest, when he looked at those brilliant green eyes. Draco didn't even try to pretend he wasn't scared. Harry knew that. Harry knew everything and that made Draco even more afraid. His mask had slipped.  
He was going to die. But at least he would die happy.  
Harry jumped down from his stool and for a second Draco thought he was going to leave, but then he pulled Draco down, too, and then he kissed him. And it was just lips on lips and it was simple and small, but it also meant everything. It was the whole stupid world.  
And they pulled away and Draco was crying, he could feel the wetness on his cheeks. Harry smiled sadly and wiped them away with the back of his hand. And Harry wrapped his arms around Draco, pulling him close into a hug. Draco felt like he was floating on clouds. Harry's arms were warm, and it was skin on skin, and Draco felt a million times better. He didn't ache anymore.  
Ache.  
Suddenly, Draco could hear the owls again, and feel the dust, and see the rest of the owlery and not just Harry. He swallowed and pulled away into the cold, because now reality was back and reality was painful and sharp and realistic.  
He could never do this again, not if he wanted to live. And not if he wanted his mother to live, he realized. How could he have been so irresponsible? How could he have done that? What if Harry told someone? What if he tried to kiss Draco again, tomorrow? What if Draco kissed back?  
Draco kicked the stool. He could never do it again. He could never even be friends with him again, and Harry had been a good friend. He would miss him so much.  
"Are you okay?" Harry asked. Awkward, because he didn't know what to say, because he was just eleven and this was probably his first kiss... And Draco had ruined that too, hadn't he?  
"Yes," Draco said, trying to fit a smile onto his face. Harry smiled back, and that made Draco even angrier, because he was so angry inside and all he had to do was pretend to smile and no one would ever know. His mask was working again, and he hated that.  
"Sorry," Draco said, embarrassed. He picked up the stool. "I have to… I have to go. I'm sorry."  
Malfoys never apologize.  
But Draco had.  
"See you tomorrow?" Harry asked.  
Draco turned. "Of course," he said, smiling.  
And he grabbed Persephone's cage and left. He didn't see Harry again until the next day.  
()()()  
Harry was floating.  
Butterflies in his stomach. Pins and needles. Heartbeats.  
He didn't tell a soul. He just smiled stupidly to himself in the common room, and didn't answer when Hermione asked him why he was so happy. He didn't sleep until midnight because he was so excited for the next day.  
A world of possibilities.  
Anything could happen.  
Now that he had kissed Draco, who knew what would happen next? Harry hadn't even considered that he would ever kiss a boy, much less how magical it could be. He wanted to do it again and again, every day of his life. He was only eleven, and he had already had his first kiss! How amazing was that?  
And Draco Malfoy! If someone had walked up to him a week ago and told him that he would kiss Draco, he would have laughed in their face.  
Harry kept smiling.  
It was almost time for breakfast and he kept on counting down the seconds on the clock, waiting and waiting and bouncing up and down with nerves, and shaking his hands back and forth and jumping up and down. Ron rolled his eyes when he saw him. Anastasia looked confused. Hermione raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask. Good, because Harry wouldn't have answered.  
This was too special to contaminate so soon. Because as soon as he told someone, it would lose the magic, the sacredness of a secret. And he knew that Draco wouldn't want that, either.  
And Hermione tapped him on the shoulder. "Time for breakfast," she said, raising an eyebrow when Harry practically jumped out of his chair. "Seriously, Harry, what is going on?" she asked, but he just ran past her and out of the common room.  
The stairs seemed to never end. Seriously, why did the common room have to be at the top of a tower? And why did the staircases have to move? But, finally, he made it to the great hall.  
Somber.  
Dark.  
Still. After a week. The Aurors had left after the third day. Harry had thought that people would calm down a bit after that. Everyone was okay. It was no use worrying about it. Or perhaps he only thought that because he was so strangely happy.  
People glared at him as he grinned his way to the Gryffindor table, turning immediately to look at the Slytherin table. No one was there. No matter. He would be. He had said it himself, had said that he would be there. So it was okay.  
Harry wasn't nervous. Not at all.  
The other Gryffindors followed soon after. Harry was too anxious to eat, but soon the table was filled with cautious chatter and the sound of chewing.  
Ron Weasley dropped a newspaper by Harry's plate.  
Harry didn't even look.  
He couldn't.  
He heard other reading it. Heard gasps, and saw looks of disgust, but he didn't. He didn't want anything to ruin his mood. He was happy so rarely these days, and the butterflies fluttering in his stomach gave him something else to focus on. Something other than Sorcerer's stones and Voldemort.  
Something nice.  
Harry watched the door like a hawk, waiting for Draco to walk in. Waiting for their eyes to meet, and then maybe Draco's eyes would light up and he would smile shyly at Harry, who would smile shyly back. Oh, magical. It would be magical. And Harry's heart would beat faster when their eyes met, and his head would rise up into the clouds, and he would never have to come back down.  
Hermione tapped him on the shoulder. "Are you going to eat? Whatever you're thinking about can't be that important, surely. Here, have some toast," she passed him a piece, but Harry just waved it away.  
Hermione narrowed her eyes.  
"Well… maybe you should read the paper. It might be important to know what happened," Hermione tried.  
Harry shook his head.  
"I'm not joking, Harry! It's insane! We have to tell Dumbledore about this."  
Harry just nodded.  
Hermione glared at him. "Fine! Stay in your stupid little dream world."  
Harry smiled when she turned away.  
Anastasia looked at him from across the table. "Are you waiting for someone?" she asked, following his eyes to the door.  
Harry shook his head.  
The clock ticked. Ticked. Ticked. Seconds passing by, slipping into agonizing minutes. Harry even had to pause and eat a bite of toast because his stomach was growling and Hermione wouldn't stop groaning every time it did.  
And then Draco walked into the great hall.  
Harry sucked in a breath. He looked perfect. His eyes were icicles, his hair was messy. It looked better that way, without all the gel, hanging down into his eyes. And he turned in Harry's direction, and Harry sucked in a breath.  
But their eyes didn't meet.  
Draco walked to his table without looking at Harry.  
Did he realize that he was here? Or had he forgotten already… doubts began to cloud Harry's mind, but he pushed them away. No. He would just have to go up and talk to him. It would be fine. It would be okay.  
Harry stood up from the table. He pushed his chair back loudly, making everyone turn to look, including Draco. His eyes narrowed, they looked cold. Doubts came flooding back, heavier and heavier with each step Harry took across the great hall, weighing him down.  
Was he wrong?  
Because now Draco was glaring at him. He was trying to cut him apart with his eyes, trying to rip him to pieces. He was whispering into Pansy's ear and she was looking at Harry worriedly, biting her lip. Harry's steps got heavier. Maybe he should turn around.  
But no. He couldn't, not now. Not after yesterday! They had kissed. Why would Draco be angry at him now, all of a sudden? What could Harry have done?  
Harry had reached the Slytherin table. He opened his mouth to speak.  
"What do you want, you filthy, queer little half-blood?" Draco said, suddenly shooting to his feet and glaring into Harry's eyes.  
They faced each other, neither speaking, only feet apart.  
The words rang in the empty air. Everyone heard.  
The world was a blur.  
"Hey, you don't say that to Harry!" someone yelled.  
Then someone was pushing past Harry. People were saying things, people were yelling. The lights were blinding. Harry dimly saw Draco's face, bathed in bright lights, and he saw him sitting down and looking away, like it was in slow motion. Everything was hazy, and Harry could do nothing but stare.  
Hermione grabbed his shoulders, then his hands, and she pulled him back to the Gryffindor table. She was saying something to him, gripping his hands tightly, but Harry couldn't respond. His ears were ringing. He let her pull on his hands, let her talk. It didn't matter.  
Everything had fallen into place, and then everything had fallen apart.  
()()()  
Draco barely escaped the great hall in time. As soon as he reached the common room, he burst into tears. He ran to his room and buried his face in his pillow like a child.  
"You are a Malfoy," his father said. "Malfoys do not cry."  
Draco sobbed, hearing his father's voice echoing through his head. He tried to hold back to tears but they kept coming, and it was all he could do to breathe, because his chest was heaving painfully and his eyes were burning.  
Pansy followed soon after. She sat beside him on his bed, running her fingers through his hair. "It's okay," she whispered. "You did what you had to do. I know it's hard, but…"  
She stopped speaking. Draco dimly heard ragged, shaking breaths from beside him, and then he felt himself being pulled away from his bed, and then he was looking into her eyes, which were shimmering with unshed tears. She pulled him into her arms and they didn't move for a long time.  
()()()  
Harry read the paper.  
It took his mind off of Draco. It kept him grounded. Hermione had been right, this was more important. In fact, what had he been thinking? Bouncing around like a fairy, as if everything was okay, and all that mattered was his stupid little crush. Stupid. He had been so bloody stupid.  
Draco probably never liked him. He was just playing with him, so that now he could tell everyone that he snogged Harry Potter, and that Harry was so stupid that he had believed that it had been real.  
Draco probably hated him. He probably always had.  
Well, two can play at that game.  
Harry hated Draco, too.  
And that made more sense. He was nothing but a little death eater in training, born to be Voldemort's minion. To serve him like the brainwashed piece of shit that he was. It was hard to believe that Harry could have ever liked that, but he certainly wouldn't make that mistake again.  
So, instead, Harry read the paper. Read the bullshit that Longbottom had told Rita Skeeter. And read about the sorcerer's stone, and realized that no one in the wizarding world knew that Voldemort had it, because of Longbottom and his pathetic little ego.  
And something dark and cold fell over the wizarding world.  
Something icy.  
Something sharp.  
A chill in Harry's bones when he looked into Hermione's eyes. The fear there was horrible. And the other students chattered happily, as if nothing was wrong.  
Harry felt hollow.  
And Voldemort's shadow fell over the wizarding world like a blanket, smothering it.  
()()()  
Lucius stared at the ground.  
He was in his huge, sweet-smelling gardens. But the flowers were wilting, the clouds were gray. The grass was scorched by flames. There was a small circle of black, baked earth. Destroyed. Lucius shifted uncomfortably, trying not to seem angry about the ruin that his garden was.  
For, in the center of that circle, were two black boots.  
"Look at me, my faithful servants," came the hoarse, scratched voice. Like the voice of a dead man, or a man who should be dead.  
Lucius raised his eyes.  
And met Voldemort's. Yellow. Piercing, like a snake's. They burned their way into his skull, like fire. He was a shell, a skeleton walking. His arms were like sticks, and his face like a skull. But Lucius couldn't push back the terror that was climbing up into his throat.  
"Go forth, my servants," he hissed. "And tell the world that the dark lord has risen again."  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: it's a secret!  
> And I would love it if you would leave a review :)


	6. 5 - Empty

Five.  
Empty.  
()()()  
(Five years later.)  
Lucius Malfoy stood, as frozen as physically possible, in the center of the group of Death Eaters. They were all gathered around a cloaked figure who was standing in the middle of Lucius's bedroom, laughing his head off, and sending out bolts of lightning from his fingers. A lamp exploded. A corner of the bed caught on fire.  
Lucius tried not to react, but he couldn't hide a gasp of dismay when the mirror (made of solid gold, the one that had been passed down the Malfoy line for generations) was morphed into a crude image of a golden chicken, which clucked twice and exploded into flaming pieces.   
The Dark Lord cackled. He levitated over to Lucius, reached out a bone-white finger, and booped him on the nose.   
Lucius glared.  
"Finally!" the Dark Lord crowed. His voice was higher than before. It almost hurt Lucius's ears. "Finally! Can you feel it, Lucius? The power in my fingers? I could kill any one of you without even trying!"  
The group took a step back, and the Dark Lord only laughed louder. "Oh, and you are afraid!" he landed on the ground and raised his hands. The ceiling of Lucius's bedroom imploded. Lucius's hands formed into fists.  
"They won't stand a chance," the Dark Lord said, laughing. The Death Eaters hesitated, and then laughed with him.  
()()()  
Hogwarts was dark. It looked like one huge, deformed shadow in the distance. The turrets and towers twisted up like snakes. For a split second, Harry's heart stopped when he thought he saw Death Eaters, flying over Hogwarts. But they were only bats. It was nearly impossible to tell in the dark.  
Rules for Protection no. 19: turn off the lights! Keeping them on will only make it easier for airborne Death Eaters to see you from the sky.  
They certainly had followed that rule perfectly. Apparently, a spell had been placed to keep the light from within Hogwarts from shining out the windows. Spells had also been placed over the surrounding area to make it even darker than it would be naturally. It was like Hogwarts was trapped in endless night.  
It was even more unsettling at midnight. Apparently, the Ministry thought it was safest to arrive late. The Death Eaters were less likely to be looking for victims. According to the Ministry, they had started to senselessly kill Muggle-borns, and even some Pureblood wizards who were against Voldemort. But even Death Eaters needed sleep. And it would harder to see in the dark.  
Rules for Protection no. 20: travel at night! This will make it more difficult for enemies to spot you, or to aim spells at you.   
Dumbledore had finally gotten word out that Voldemort had the sorcerer's stone and was probably coming back, and now they had to follow all of these rules. Harry wasn't complaining, though. It was good that people finally knew the danger that they were in. He knew that everyone else was just as on edge as he was, and just as afraid of the dark, and that was a good thing.  
Bloody hell, it was cold. Harry rubbed his arms, which had sprouted goosebumps. They couldn't even cast a simple warming spell because of Rule 3 (No magic out in the open. Death Eaters may be able to see the colors and brightness of the spell.) Harry almost regretted wrapping his sweater around Anastasia, but she was shivering, and she was scared of the thestrals.  
She had told him that they could only be seen by people who had seen death. Harry had last year, when Lupin and Sirius had killed Peter Pettigrew in the Shrieking Shack. He had almost told them not to… but he hadn't. The times were too dangerous to spare anyone associated with Voldemort. But he hadn't been able to tear his eyes away as the spell hit him in the face and he fell to the ground, not moving. Not breathing. Just a look of terror frozen onto his rat-like face. Harry doubted he would ever forget it.  
Harry had tried asking Stasia who she had seen die, but she just pretended to look confused and said that she couldn't remember. Harry didn't argue, because it was her choice if she didn't want to tell him, but it was still annoying that she had to pretend to have forgotten instead of just saying she didn't want to tell him. He would have understood that.  
Anastasia shivered, and Harry planted a quick kiss on her cheek. Damn, she was cold. She cuddled up to him closer, and Harry had to fight the urge to push her away. He still wasn't used to all the touch that she seemed to crave, but it made her feel happy and safe so he endured it.  
The thestrals ambled ahead like ghosts in the darkness. Everything was so dark. Harry could hardly see his own feet in the shadowed carriage. The trees ahead disappeared into the black on either side, and then Hogwarts was looming ahead of them, dark and silent. Several Aurors Harry didn't know motioned for them to get off, and then all the sixth year Gryffindors were gathered around and running inside.  
They had staggered the arrivals, too. Each group would arrive about an hour apart.  
Rule 17: Do not travel in large groups! Large groups tend to be louder and attract more attention, making them easier for Death Eaters to target. Ideally, travel in groups of four or five.  
Harry squeezed Stasia's hand and she squeezed back, hard, like she was afraid of falling. Harry patted the thestral on the nose and then they were running down a path that they couldn't see, surrounded by people he wasn't sure were there, and then the doors opened quickly to let them through.  
Professor McGonagall locked the door in five different ways and then motioned for them all to gather around her. Harry glanced around. There were only seven now. Lavender was missing, he hoped she was just late.  
Seamus Finnegan had been killed by Death Eaters in June.  
They had added his face to the memorial in the great hall, and that was that. Although Dean was talking less, and Ginny had apparently cried for a day or two, because she had dated Seamus for a week or two back in May last year.  
Now, last year felt like an eternity ago, and people were dying every day.  
They all walked quietly up the stairs. People didn't talk as much either, anymore. Maybe they would later on in the year. Maybe they wouldn't.  
Harry felt Hermione lacing her fingers into his other hand. He smiled at her. It was good to have her there. She was strong, and Stasia was, well… not. Not really. Sometimes she could act like it, but he knew that on the inside she was like jelly. If there were ever a crisis, she wouldn't know what to do, how to help. And, on top of that, she was Muggle-born.  
She would be the first to die.  
So Harry kept her close to his side and his hand tight in hers. Kisses on the cheek, on the nose, on the lips, little things like that seemed to make her feel better. She pushed up her glasses and looked at him from behind her long, messy bangs, and grabbed his arm tight. She was still wearing his sweater, and it fit perfectly.  
Hermione said goodbye and went to talk to Dean. She was so good at making people feel better. Harry could see Dean's eyes light up when he saw her, although they still looked wet, and he still didn't say anything.  
The room seemed empty now.  
Oliver Wood had left the school.  
Romilda Vane had left the school.  
Angelina Johnson was in St. Mungo's.  
Colin Creevey was dead.  
The Ministry had considered shutting down the school, but Dumbledore had convinced them not to. He said that would be admitting defeat. He asked where would they be without education? How would they defend themselves without learning how?  
So here they were, sixth year, in an echoing castle full of ghosts. It didn't feel like home anymore. It felt like a graveyard.  
But if they could be strong for him, then he could be strong too.  
No thanks to Longbottom, of course. He hadn't done anything right so far. The newspapers did nothing but take his name and shove it into the dirt, and for good reason. Second year, Harry and Hermione had barely saved him from the basilisk. Third year, he had followed Snape into the Shrieking Shack. Hermione had cast the horn tongue hex and he couldn't speak for a week. And he was bad at everything. Classes, Quidditch, relationships. Life in general.  
Not to mention that he was just so dislikable. He asked for more autographs than Lockhart. He was proud and selfish, and he had this way of looking at you like were a bug. It would have been intimidating if his face wasn't so round.  
No, the Wizarding World definitely wasn't about to get any hope from the boy who lived.  
Harry said goodbye to Stasia and Hermione and wandered into the boys' dormitory. He knew he wasn't going to be able to sleep, but it still felt right to be in his bed when it was so late. It was something normal, something routine.  
Longbottom and Weasley were sitting the corner, playing a half-hearted game of wizards' chess. Weasley was winning. Dean was pretending to be asleep.  
Harry sighed and closed his eyes. There were too many empty beds.  
()()()  
A paper landed next to his arm.  
Harry looked up from his breakfast. Weasley had flung the paper down. He had his arms crossed and his was glaring. "Read it," he said with a grimace. "It's disgusting."  
Harry read it.  
Triwizard Tournament to be held at Beauxbatons School of Sorcellerie and Magie. With England currently a war zone, participants will be arriving from Bulgaria and Italy.   
Mr. Ludo Bagman of the Ministry of Magic states: "Just because You-Know-Who's followers are destroying England doesn't mean that all of Europe has to live in constant fear! I, for one, will be immediately leaving England and going to live in Switzerland, and I highly encourage the rest of Britain to follow in my footsteps!"  
Nearly all wizards from everywhere in Europe will be attending the Triwizard Tournament. Sadly, most wizards from England will not be able to attend because of the threat of You-Know-Who's alleged "return."  
Mr. Barty Crouch states: "I'm moving to Switzerland too! If anyone wants to stay in England, they can take care of You-Know-Who. The rest of us will be out here enjoying ourselves at the Tournament!"  
Harry didn't read the rest.  
Weasley sputtered, "Cowards, that's what they are! Instead of sending over people to help us save the world from You-Know-Who, they're having a bloody Triwizard Tournament! First one in hundreds of years, and they're having it now. Cowards."  
He sat down next to Harry and took an angry bite of toast, ranting about the Ministry.  
Harry agreed, of course, but he didn't feel like complaining about the government right now.  
He turned the page.  
Neville Longbottom: Boy Who Lived, or Boy Who Is a Complete Idiot?  
Well, their headlines were certainly suffering.  
Harry glanced over at Longbottom, who was reading the paper. His face had gone an unflattering shade of maroon. He said something, but no one seemed to hear, because everyone was sitting far away from him, at the other end of the table. Harry was reminded bitterly of Colin Creevey, who had always sat by Longbottom even when no one else would. He had lost all of his friends because of that. Everyone who had abandoned him regretted it now, of course, but it was too late.  
He had been the first article. Harry could remember reading, "Young Boy Captured and Killed by Death Eaters," and then the knife to his gut when he realized it was Colin.  
Then they had dropped like flies.  
A family of five in London. One of them was a two-year-old.  
A group of ten teenage Muggleborns at a party.  
And in Hogwarts, too. Penelope Clearwater, Percy's girlfriend. Ernie Macmillan. Zacharias Smith.  
And then Seamus had died, and it was all too real and too close, because he was in their year, and he was a pureblood, and that meant anyone could die. Death Eaters didn't even discriminate anymore.  
But, of course, the Slytherin table was still full. Not a single empty chair.  
Harry glanced at Malfoy, who was talking to Pansy and who had a wrinkle in his tie (because Harry still noticed everything about Malfoy), and felt that weird feeling that he couldn't name. A cross between hatred, which was what he was supposed to feel, and something else that he was not supposed to feel. (Still, after three years.)  
And he looked away.  
But he could never stop doing that, looking at Malfoy. Ever since second year. No, ever since first year when he had dreamed that Malfoy had kissed him. And how crazy was that? Because no matter how many times Harry looked at Malfoy, he was still the same detestable little ferret that would never, ever kiss Harry, and who Harry would never, ever kiss.  
Just one problem.  
It hadn't been a dream.  
Harry knew dreams by now. Dreams were when he woke up screaming and Weasley yelled at him. Dreams were when he woke up in a cold sweat. Dreams were when he saw snakes and fires and sometimes his forehead hurt, but it wasn't a headache, it was a sharp pain right there, right there on his forehead.  
Dreams were not fuzzy little fairy tales where he kissed people in owleries.  
And while Malfoy had gone on to date Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass and even Blaise Zabini for a little while, Harry still couldn't forget it, even when Stasia was right there beside him.  
Harry tried to drink his orange juice and put Malfoy out of his mind. And put everything out of his mind. It was the first day of school. He wasn't supposed to be brooding over his breakfast. He looked around and saw that more and more people were engaging in attempts at conversation. It was ridiculous that people could talk about the weather when Voldemort was coming back and people had died, but it was better than… than always thinking about it, like Harry was.  
But as he listened to the conversations about Exploding Snap and joke shops and Quidditch, he realized that he couldn't do it. He didn't want to talk about stupid things, he wanted to be alone. Yes, he really, really wanted to be alone right now.  
He grabbed his cup of orange juice and walked out of the great hall.  
No one followed him, but everyone watched him go.  
()()()  
Draco watched him go. It was hard not to follow him. Every part of him wanted to, except for his brain. His brain said stay here and call Granger a Mudblood and snog Pansy senseless. They were not things that he particularly wanted to do, but they were safe things.  
Goddammit. Every year it got harder to stay here and not follow him. Every year he watched him more, and every year he saw more. The little bit of stubble on his chin, the way he walked (like he owned the world), and god, his eyes… Draco melted under those eyes.  
He watched as Granger got up and followed him. At least someone did.  
And then Draco pushed down his thoughts. It had been five minutes. Now he had to concentrate on being Malfoy and not Draco. It was hard to pretend to be someone else. Malfoy was cruel, and sarcastic, and he looked down on people like Granger and he hated Harry. But it was easy, after so long, to pretend to be him.  
Just routine.  
Because that's what people do. People always pretend to be someone completely different, someone terrible, because otherwise they could die.  
Oh, yes, things had gotten worse.  
Sorry, did he say worse? He meant better. It was so much better now that the Dark Lord was risen again. Everything was wonderful. Everything was great.  
The last time Draco had seen his father, three months ago, he had brought him into the garden to have a "chat."  
"Draco," he had said, and Draco could remember it clearly. The look in his eyes… Hungry. That was it. Hungry.  
"The Dark Lord has risen again, Draco," he had said, with that hunger. "It will be only a short time before all the world will fall. He is powerful, Draco. More power than you could ever imagine, at the tips of his fingers."  
Draco had shuddered, and then his father had grabbed his shoulders in his iron grip. "But that's the problem, Draco," and now his voice had lowered, and it was smooth and slimy like a snake. "I've been too easy on you. I don't think I've convinced you of the truth yet. You're stupid and rebellious. I should have beaten the pulp out of you every day of your life before I let you come to this. Friends with the son of the Potters, in first year? Refusing to take the dark mark?"  
He leaned in closer, and Draco could feel his breath on his face. "You'll regret that one," he whispered. Draco could feel himself trembling.  
Then he leaned back, straightened up, and stabbed the ground with his cane. "Any hint of rebellion, any sign that you're wavering, Draco, and the Dark Lord will kill you, and Narcissa. He doesn't need either of you. You are expendable. Remember that. And remember, he has ways. He will know. You had better watch yourself, Draco. Remember that," he whispered.  
Draco never knew if his father was lying, or manipulating him, or even telling the truth. But he was too scared, so he tried to follow the rules.  
Rules for Protection no 1. Don't talk to bloody Harry Potter. Don't kiss him either, you idiot. On second thought, don't even look at him.   
He called them that in his mind, because the real Rules for Protection didn't exactly apply, did they? And "Rules for Protection" was a stupid name anyway.  
"Draco," Pansy said quietly, leaning her head on his shoulder. "You're brooding." She smiled sadly, because she knew exactly what he was brooding about. He had told her everything. He always did. And besides that, people were dying, too. That wasn't something to be cheerful about.  
Draco sighed and took her hand, under the table. Holding hands wasn't very Slytherin.  
But he wasn't very Slytherin, either. Not anymore.  
And, besides, it felt nice.  
()()()  
"Harry," Hermione said. "Are you okay?"  
They were standing outside of the great hall. Harry could still hear the clanking of forks and the talking and occasional half-hearted laughter. He tried not to look at the door, where the pictures of fallen students were hanging, but he failed. One look at all of their faces, smiling widely, some of them with tongues sticking out or some winking at the camera… All moving, all alive… "No," he said, and his voice broke when he said it.  
Hermione smiled sadly and hugged him. Harry held her tightly, trying to breathe.  
They had put the memorial on the doors of the great hall. Above the doors was a sign that he couldn't read because everything was too blurry, but he knew that it said, "In Honor of the Fallen." There were a lot of portraits. Their faces covered the doors and part of the hallway. They were all moving, and that made it worse, because it only reminded you that they would never…  
Harry sobbed into Hermione's hair. She pulled him closer, and all of a sudden Harry loved hugs, because she couldn't see him crying. (He didn't see the door open a crack, either.)  
A few of the portraits murmured comforting words. Harry heard Seamus say, "There, there, mate. It's all right." That only made Harry cry harder.  
Finally, he sort of stopped crying, and he let go of Hermione. He saw that she had tears in her eyes as well. She tried to smile and wiped the tears from her eyes. Harry wiped at his face with his tie. "I know," she said. "I know."  
"Thanks," he said, afraid to say more, because he might burst into tears again.  
She raised her eyebrow.  
"For the hug," he said sheepishly.  
"You don't have to thank me. Friends hug friends. I'll hug you whenever you need it," she said softly. "And you'll hug me, too, when I need it." She stepped back, put her hands on his shoulders, and took a deep breath. "Ready to go back in? Oh." She waved her wand and suddenly her eyes were dry again. Harry raised a hand to his cheek. No tears.  
Harry didn't want to go back in. He didn't want to pretend to be fine again. But he had to be strong, like Hermione.  
Harry tried not to look at the portraits when they walked through the doors.  
()()()  
Draco quickly stepped back when the doors opened, and Harry… and Potter and Granger stepped through.  
Something was stuck in his throat.  
Draco took a deep breath and sank to the floor. It was all too much.  
He hadn't listened to his mind, and he had followed Harry. And then he looked through the door and saw them crying, and he was so pathetic, because when other people cried it made him start to cry… And especially when it was Harry, because he wanted Harry to be happy...  
Luckily, no one was looking at him. That would be disgraceful. His eyes were probably puffy.  
Unluckily, he was crying. Nothing like Potter, of course. Malfoys didn't cry like that.  
No, actually. Malfoys didn't cry at all. His father had taught him that. But Draco put a trembling hand to his cheek and then wiped at the tears angrily, because they were there. He shouldn't be crying. Someone would see him and word got around faster than bloody griffinpox at this school…. And he was a Malfoy. He was better than this.  
Draco stood up, plastered a confident look on his face, and wiped away his stupid tears.  
But he couldn't stay there, and Potions was starting in ten minutes, so he left the great hall at a run.  
Snape. He could… he could talk to Snape, couldn't he? But Snape probably already knew about his father's orders, and he would tell Draco to suck it up and get on with it because this was war, and some things were more important than Draco's stupid feelings. And he would be right, of course. Of course he would be right. And anyway, Draco wasn't about to whine to him about how stupid and sad he was.  
Not Snape.  
Pansy? No. He had told her about his father, but he wasn't about to tell her that he had been crying. And even if he did, she would ask why. And he didn't even know why.  
His mother? Oh, god, no. Draco regretted even thinking that. She was probably… oh god, who knew how she was doing? What if… no, it wasn't good to think of his mother. Much less annoy her with his stupid little problems.  
That left… no one. No one. Draco didn't have anyone else.  
So, because there was nowhere else to go, Draco leaned against the wall outside the Potions classroom, breathing quickly, trying to calm his shaking hands.  
Five minutes. Remember. Only five minutes.  
Draco closed his eyes and listened to his breathing. This never helped calm him down, but he did it anyway. His breaths were shallow and fast, because he had been running, but also because he had been crying. He realized that there were tears in his eyes again, and he needed something to hurt, but there was no one there to hurt, so he clawed at his face with his fingers until all of the wetness was gone, and there were angry red marks. When his face hurt too much, he punched the wall and kicked it, but that was even worse, because Malfoys didn't do that. Malfoys were calm.  
But Draco was falling apart.  
Then someone rounded the corner, and it was Potter, and the first thing Draco did was notice his brilliant green eyes, and that made him angry, and…  
And he shoved on his mask, and no one would have guessed he had been crying, or how angry or how sad or how ruined he was. He knew because of many hours spent staring into the mirror, practicing, that he looked haughty and proud and perfectly Malfoy. But then he realized that it was all ruined by the obvious scratches on his face. He lifted his chin, daring Potter to say something.  
Potter stared at him. Draco knew a million thoughts were probably running through his head. He should say something. Something instead of just standing there. But he couldn't think of anything to say.  
So Draco turned on his heel and disappeared inside the Potions classroom.  
Instantly, his mask melted away. Panic, yes. Panic was the emotion that replaced it. He was scared that Harry… that Potter would say something. Tell someone. Someone who would tell someone who would tell someone… who would tell Father.  
And then, shame. He was ashamed that Potter had seen him. And of course his was, because he didn't want Potter to see him like that. He wanted Potter to see him… well, he wasn't exactly sure how he wanted Potter to see him…  
Oh, god, he was confused. He didn't even know what he was feeling, did he? Pathetic.  
Snape looked up from the potion cabinet and when he saw it was Draco, his sneer disappeared and he looked worried. Slytherins. So many masks.  
"Draco?" he asked softly. "Are you all right?"  
Draco nodded stiffly.  
Snape nodded. "Good. But you may want to cast a healing spell on your face." Draco nodded and cast the spell. Instantly, he could feel all the pain drain away. He clenched his fists, because he wanted it back. But there was nothing to be done.  
Then Snape walked to the door, his robes sweeping around him, and flung it open. "Class has begun!" he snapped at the hallway.  
A throng of students poured through the door, and Draco took a seat in the back row and looked at the ground.  
He could sense Harry watching him.  
But his five minutes were up. Had been up for a long time.  
So Malfoy sneered and whispered into Nott's ear, "What a Mudblood lover."  
Nott snickered.  
()()()  
Harry wasn't able to keep himself from watching Malfoy.  
He was looking at the ground. He looked up briefly when Pansy nudged him, and he whispered something into Theodore Nott's ear (Harry wished he knew what he had said), but he ignored Harry's gaze. Harry was annoyed by that. He liked Dra… Malfoy's eyes. And he definitely didn't like it when he was sad and quiet like this. Even though he was an insufferable git, he would rather have that than this… silence.  
Malfoy had healed his face. Harry tried to stop himself from wondering what those scratches were from, and failed miserably. Had someone done that to him? Who? Who in this school would dare attack Malfoy?  
The rest of the class was quiet too, he realized. In fact, Harry hadn't been talking much, either. It was… weird. Usually…  
Scratch that.  
It wasn't good to think about how things used to be, not if he wanted to start sobbing into Hermione's shoulder again, like a bloody four-year-old.  
Harry sighed and tried to concentrate on Potions. He smiled when Snape took ten points from Gryffindor because of Neville. Some things never changed, and that made him feel better.  
Hermione whispered Potions facts into his ear, which helped distract him from the inevitable depressing thoughts he always seemed to be having these days. He even took a few notes, (That was one "note" for every ten drawings of Quidditch players) which made Hermione smile approvingly.  
At one point, when Harry wasn't paying attention to anything, he looked down at his paper and saw that his hand had drawn a picture of someone's hair. Oh. It was Malfoy's. He remembered that he had liked Malfoy's hair. He still did. He touched the paper… almost without realizing it… and then quickly crumpled it up and shoved it into his pocket.  
Hermione pursed her lips, and he knew that she had seen it, and it was hard not to recognize Malfoy's platinum blonde hair. He ignored her, and instead drew a few hearts on Anastasia's paper. She smiled at him, but Hermione stared at him for a few moments as if she was trying to figure out a difficult Arithmancy problem. Then she looked away.  
Harry bit his lip.  
What was he doing?  
He pushed away the doubt and kissed Stasia on the cheek. She grinned, and Harry felt a deep pain in his gut.  
No, that was stupid.  
He liked Anastasia. He kissed her, sometimes. He held her hand. They talked late at night. And he wasn't really sure, but he thought that meant he liked her. Why would he kiss her if he didn't like her?  
"Class dismissed," Snape said, and Harry realized that he hadn't heard a single word of most of the lesson. Hermione looked at him and handed him her notes without a word.  
"Thank me later," she said, joining the crowd of people rushing to leave and leaving him alone with Stasia. Hermione paused to glare at him, and then kept walking.  
"What was that bout?" Stasia asked softly, clutching Harry's hand.  
"Um… nothing," Harry stuttered. Most people would have been able to tell that he was lying just then, but Stasia didn't seem to. She nodded and smiled and followed him. Did she ever think for herself?  
No, he shouldn't think that. She was sweet, and nice, and pretty. She was probably in love with him. There was no reason to think that.  
As they walked down the hallway, they saw Luna Lovegood running towards them, with a pile of books that was leaning so far to the right it must be held up by magic. Suddenly she gasped, dropped all the books unceremoniously on the ground, and pointed a finger at them. "You!" she cried. She pulled a pair of glasses out of her pocket and put them on. "Yes, it's what I thought. You have Dimbles all around you! You might want to get that checked," she said mistily.  
Then she smiled, gathered up her books, and ran on like nothing had happened.  
Harry smiled. It was probably just Luna being Luna. He had missed Luna. She was one more thing that would never change.  
Harry saw Malfoy again, walking in the middle of a group of Slytherins. Most of them weren't talking, although he saw Pansy lean over and say, "You know, cheering charms do exist…"  
Harry took a step back when he saw Malfoy turn on her. "Shut up, Pansy!" he yelled. She swallowed nervously and nodded.  
Harry saw her meet his eyes. She smiled… almost shyly, and shrugged. Harry smiled back.  
Even though Malfoy had turned into an absolute prick, Harry and Hermione were still on good terms with Pansy. They didn't talk much, but she went to Hogsmeade with them last year, and she was there when Lupin and Sirius killed Peter Pettigrew. But it was hard to be friends with someone from a different house, and she didn't want to lose face with the Slytherins.  
Harry watched them walk away.  
Anastasia poked him. "Defense class is in five minutes," she said. "Let's go."  
Harry nodded and smiled at her and let her lead him to DADA class so that he didn't have to think.  
This year, most of their classes were combined with another house due to the sudden lack of students. DADA was with the Slytherins, too, so Harry saw Malfoy in the back of the room. He was alone now. Pansy and the rest of the Slytherins were sitting on the other side of the room, glaring at him.  
Harry looked at Hermione, but she shook her head, so he and Stasia ended up sitting in the back, by Malfoy. He looked at the ceiling, scowling, pointedly ignoring them. Harry smirked at him.  
The new professor, a man with a fake eye called Mad-Eye Moody, started talking about love spells. Malfoy's scowl deepened, which made Harry smirk more.  
"Stop grinning like a bloody idiot, Potter," Malfoy said.  
"Just trying to look like you," Harry said casually.  
"Imitation is the highest form of flattery, Potter," Malfoy said with a smirk.  
"I'm not trying to flatter you, Malfoy," Harry said, annoyed because it wasn't true. He would have liked to have told Malfoy how nice his hair looked today, because it did. He wouldn't have minded touching it either, maybe running his fingers through it, just to see what it felt like, of course.  
God. What was he doing?  
"It's alright, Potter. No need to confess your undying love for me. I already know. You should see your face," Malfoy sneered. "Red as a tomato."  
Harry felt heat rush to his face. Scratch that. Scratch everything. He much preferred sad, quiet, boring Malfoy to this idiot. He was going to make Harry say something he'd regret. Something they'd both regret.  
"Shut up, Malfoy," he said. He didn't like backing down from a fight, but he didn't think he could take this right now. He was unstable. They all were.  
Malfoy sneered.  
A few people were looking at them now, eager for a fight. (One more thing that never changed.) Hogwarts loved drama so bloody much. Why couldn't they turn around and focus on learning about thestrals? Harry suddenly hoped beyond hope that what Malfoy had said wasn't true. It would be all over the school if someone saw him blushing.  
"Speechless, are you? Is it my dashing good looks? My winning personality? Is this shirt a bit tight?" Malfoy grinned, and Harry felt the anger building up.  
Dammit. His emotions were too out of control. This wasn't fair. And now people were watching, everyone was watching, and if they weren't watching they were listening. Moody was yelling for everyone to pay attention and they still wouldn't. Everyone wanted to know what would happen next, and if Malfoy wasn't careful something would happen because Harry couldn't control himself right now.  
He felt his fists clenching and his breathing getting faster. Everything Malfoy said was like a fist because it was all so horribly true. Malfoy could see right through him. That made him mad. He wanted to punch a wall.  
"Oh, are you getting angry, Potter?" Malfoy asked, smirking in that way, that way where his eyebrows were raised and his smile was so slight and Harry didn't know whether he wanted to punch him or kiss him…  
"It's alright Harry. Go on, confess your love for me. I'm ready," Malfoy laughed, and then he puckered up his lips and closed his eyes and the Slytherins laughed and everyone was laughing and Harry found that his fist was inexplicably heading for Malfoy's face…  
"You're the one who kissed me in fucking first year!" he shouted, and then Malfoy had blood running from his nose and then his eyes were burning and he was out of his chair and then they were on the floor. Harry yelled when Malfoy shoved him up against the wall, and then he was kicking and punching and not watching, not even looking. He could hear screams from the people watching, and he could feel pain on his arm and his chest and on the side of his head, but he didn't care. He wanted to hurt as much as he could.  
Moody yelled something, and then they were suspended in midair, breathing heavily and glaring daggers at each other. Harry saw blood above Malfoy's eye, and trickling down from his nose, and that made him smile.  
Eventually, Harry looked away.  
Everyone was staring at them.  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, they're the right age again! Lol. I spent forever fixing those first five chapters. Well, I hope you weren't too put off by the jump through time, because things are just going to get more interesting from here, trust me.   
> NEXT: chocolate frogs, confrontation between Harry and Hermione, and… some hyperventilation.   
> Please review! I mean, you just read 6000 words, you might as well


	7. Six - Breathe

Six.  
Breathe.  
()()()  
Ernie loved gossip. It was no secret. Most of Hufflepuff house got their information from him. They listened to him more than they listened to the Prophet. (It wasn't that big of a difference, really.)  
He loved the looks on their faces when they listened to him speak. In that moment, he was the center of attention, drinking in their dropping jaws and their wide eyes. And Ernie was a great storyteller.  
Before, he had told them that the sorcerer's stone was a hoax. Ernie's father had told him that. Barney Macmillan worked for the Daily Prophet, and he knew everything. He had told Ernie that You-Know-Who wasn't back. There was really nothing to worry about. Potter had been lying. Of course he had. Neville Longbottom, (Neville bloody Longbottom!) had said it himself.  
And then, with the basilisk? The Ministry put it there to scare everyone. It wasn't a conspiracy theory when it was a fact. (That's what he told the nonbelievers.)  
And now?  
Well, sometimes things that seemed unimportant could actually be the key to unlocking the truth.  
So Ernie smiled at their amazed faces as he told them about how Potter and Malfoy had kissed, with tongue and all, in the DADA classroom.  
Even if it wasn't the most important story, he still loved gossip.  
()()()  
"Disgraceful."  
McGonagall kept repeating that, under her breath. She was leading them to Dumbledore's office, Draco realized. He could tell that she was angry. Her jaw was tense, her shoulders stiff. Her face was stern, her eyes… her eyes looked furious.  
Draco gulped.  
Then he realized… this could get back to his father. Oh god, and what if the Dark Lord… and his mother… and Potter was bleeding from his face, and he had said that thing about the kiss…  
Just like Potter, really. He always had to go and fuck everything up.  
Five minutes.  
Draco had five minutes to panic.  
And there was plenty to panic about.  
If this got back to his father, Draco could very well end up dead. He didn't know what his father was capable of anymore. He didn't know if he would be proud that Draco had attacked Harry, or angry that everyone thought he had snogged him. The Dark Lord had risen, and everything had changed. He didn't know anymore.  
But instead of worrying about important things like death and the Dark Lord, he was looking at Potter. Memorizing the way his glasses slipped down his nose, the way his hair fell in his face. How he stubbornly pretended not to notice Draco's eyes on him. He was such a Gryffindor. It was almost disgusting.  
So now Draco had five minutes to stare at Potter. But instead he was trying to control his breathing. His heart was beating so fast. His body was still panicking, but Draco felt fine. He felt… better when Potter was there.  
Oh, fuck it.  
Harry. When Harry was there. This was his five precious minutes, and he could at least think Harry's bloody name during them.  
Harry, Harry, Harry.  
Take that, father.  
It was pitiful that thinking the name of someone could make Draco feel so proud, like he had done something great and special. Like he had done something Gryffindor, something brave.  
He decided to decide that his five minutes were up, and focus on walking. They must be almost to Dumbledore's office, right? This school was too bloody big.  
Left foot.  
Right foot.  
"Disgraceful," McGonagall said, again, shaking her head. "Utterly disgraceful."  
As if they had to be reminded of that.  
Draco glared at Harry, giving him his haughtiest, most infuriating look.  
Harry... Potter ignored him.  
Remember. Five minutes.  
That was rule number two. When you do think about Harry, only give yourself five minutes.  
What could be so wrong with five minutes?  
Left foot.  
Right foot.  
Walk.  
Draco listened to the footsteps.  
And then they were there. McGonagall whispered, "Lemon drop," and the hallway opened up into a spiral staircase.  
Harry went first, and Draco ended up with a lovely view of his arse, which he tried (and failed) to ignore. He had to take a few seconds to steady his breathing again.  
Dumbledore chuckled, and Draco experienced a disorienting dizziness as he was pulled from his thoughts and into Dumbledore's office. He looked around at the phoenix on its perch, the shelves filled with magical objects, the dusty bookshelves… It was such a Dumbledore room.  
Remember, remember, remember. Five minutes. He was supposed to hate Dumbledore.  
Draco scowled, and he knew that they wouldn't be able to tell it wasn't real. No one ever could, no one except for Pansy.  
"Hello, gentlemen," Dumbledore said. "Please, take a seat."  
Draco gulped, sat down, and pretended to be obsessed with his hands.  
Dumbledore sighed. "McGonagall has informed me of your fight in your Defense Against the Dark Arts class. I must say, I am extremely disappointed. Hogwarts is in mourning. Not to mention Voldemort's return. Surely you boys can find something more important to focus on than your little rivalry."  
Draco flinched at the name, but other than that no one moved. He was right. Of course he was right.  
"Now, there will be a punishment administered, of course."  
Draco scowled.  
But Dumbledore smiled pleasantly at him, which threw Draco off guard. He decided on a sulky silence. Safer, easier. No strain on his face muscles.  
Potter immediately launched into a story about how, "He started it," and, "He wanted a reaction, Dumbledore! He wanted me to punch him!"  
Draco assured him that under no circumstances did he want anyone to punch him in the face and make him bleed from his nose. Potter muttered something vile under his breath. Draco smirked.  
Dumbledore watched them both argue with that infuriating twinkle in his eye, before interrupting. "Actually, I've already decided on your punishment."  
Draco and Potter promptly shut up.  
Dumbledore smiled triumphantly. "Exactly one hour of detention per day for a week. Only the two of you. Of course, there will be spells in place to alert us if you two start attacking each other, but other than that… just you. I believe the first one is tomorrow, and you will be cleaning cauldrons. I believe that the Rat Gut potion is scheduled for tomorrow, so you should have lots of fun, I should think."  
Draco glared at the floor. Second bloody day of school, and he was already stuck with detention with Potter. Dumbledore probably thought he was a genius.  
Dumbledore continued. "And if this ever happens again, you may expect your punishment to be much more severe. Expulsion is the first thing that comes to mind. Got that?" He raised an eyebrow and waited.  
Draco and Potter nodded.  
Expulsion.  
Draco's father would kill him.  
(That was not exaggeration. He really would.)  
Draco's body was going out of control again. His heartbeat, his breathing. He was sweating. Every part of him wanted to run. To get out of this office. It was too small, that was it. It felt like he was in a cage.  
Draco closed his eyes.  
Just breathe.  
"Are you alright, Draco?" Dumbledore asked, with a tinge of concern in his voice.  
Draco wanted to tell him to fuck off. Dumbledore was the reason that Draco was practically hyperventilating. Dumbledore was the one who had threatened to expel him. If he was expelled, his father would know, and the Dark Lord would…  
Any sign that you're wavering, and the Dark Lord will kill you. You are expendable. Remember that. And remember, he has ways. He will know. You had better watch yourself, Draco.  
Did expulsion count as wavering? Bloody hell. Draco didn't know. He didn't know what he would be praised for, or what he would pay for with his life. The Dark Lord was unpredictable.  
Draco could feel his body spiraling out of control.  
What if…  
The fight with Harry…  
What if that was enough?  
What if Draco died because of this? He felt a burst of panic. He didn't want to die.  
"Draco?" Dumbledore asked again. "Minerva? Is he…"  
Suddenly Draco felt hands on his shoulders and someone was looking into his eyes. "Draco," they said. "Draco. Deep, calm, breaths. Shh. Slowly. Like this," they took a deep, slow breath. "Right, Draco? Breathe. Just breathe." Then they turned and whispered urgently, "Fetch Pomfrey. Now."  
Draco tried to breathe slowly. He really did. But he kept breathing faster, and air wasn't getting into his lungs, and oh god he was couldn't breathe and oh god he was going to die, and ohmygodohmygod that made it worse. He fell out of his chair and then he was on the floor and everything was spinning around and around.  
The world kept on tipping in and out of focus. McGonagall was there, and then Harry was, and he was shouting something. Madam Pomfrey's hair was really blurry and weird, and she saying something. Then Harry's face was getting close and closer and closer and then his lips were on Draco's…  
And then everything went black.  
()()()  
Harry was panicking.  
Apparently he had been shouting too much and asking too many stupid questions, like "But is he going to be okay?" and, "What's wrong with him?" that Dumbledore had ordered him to leave. So now he was in the hallway and he was pacing back and forth because he needed something to do or else he was going to run back in there just to know.  
Because what if something happened while Harry was stuck out here in the hallway?  
And what if…  
What if the thing that happened was…  
Harry tried to imagine… Draco's eyes closing, and his breath stopping, and everyone screaming…  
And the worst thing was… that was entirely possible.  
Because Draco hadn't been breathing when Harry last saw him. People didn't live if they weren't breathing.  
Maybe… maybe he should have made them let him stay. He had taken a Muggle first aid class. Petunia had thought it was a good idea. And he had learned how to bring someone's breath back. But Pomfrey had pulled Harry away and started casting spells.  
Spells.  
Magic.  
Don't worry.  
Magic could save him. Of course it could. Stop freaking out.  
How had he not seen it? He had been such an idiot. Too focused on his own problems to notice that someone was hyperventilating in the chair right next to him. If he closed his eyes, he could even remember hearing it. Hearing Draco's fast, raspy breaths. But not actually noticing, because he was too busy thinking about oh no detention with Malfoy and oh no my nose is bleeding.  
Harry kicked the wall.  
Ohgodowthathurt.  
He took a deep breath.  
Calm down.  
Dumbledore stuck his head out of the door. "Harry? You can come back in, if you wish."  
Harry could barely get the words out. "Is he…"  
"He is fine, Harry," Dumbledore smiled. "Pamela cast a simple spell to bring his breathing back to normal again. It would have been much easier if you weren't trying to use certain Muggle methods." He winked.  
Dumbledore didn't get it, did he? Harry had been trying to help. He hadn't been looking for an excuse to kiss Draco (if it could even be called kissing), he had wanted to make him start breathing again. And did he really think it was nice to "kiss" someone who was passed out on the floor and coughing and choking on the air he was trying to breathe?  
Harry walked past him.  
Draco was sitting up, and taking a sip of water. Madam Pomfrey was hovering over him and saying something about the hospital wing.  
"What's the matter, Potter? Happy to see me? You look like a ghost," Draco laughed.  
Harry stopped. Yes, I am happy to fucking see you, Malfoy. Of course he was. And then Dra… Malfoy… whatever his bloody name was, then he had to go and say something stupid and cruel.  
But Harry was still glad that he was okay.  
But if he told him that, he would taunt him until the end of time. So Harry turned and walked back out the door.  
()()()  
Oh, Draco would regret that for days.  
It was one thing to be an asshole during classes, when everything was fine and dandy and normal. But right after he had passed out, and after Potter had been freaking out and had tried his very hardest to help Draco, he should have at least said thank you.  
But it was so automatic now, that he had jumped to the nearest insult and said it without thinking. Potter did a decent job of concealing his emotions most days, but the absolute crushing disappointment on his face just then…  
It hurt.  
Draco wanted nothing more than to run after him and say sorry, even though Malfoys never, ever did that and Draco wasn't sure he even knew how. But Pomfrey insisted that he stay in the hospital wing for the night, even though he felt perfectly fine now.  
And the sheets were itchy.  
A few minutes later, the door opened, and in walked Pansy. She was carrying an absurdly big box, which she dumped onto the floor next to his bed. "I stole some food from the kitchens for you," she said with a smile. She sat on the bed and wrapped her arms around him. "I'm so glad you're okay."  
He sighed and leaned into her hug. Words couldn't describe how much he loved Pansy just then. He had needed a hug.  
She kissed him on the forehead and then pushed him down until his head hit the pillow. "Now, shut up. You missed class. I'll read the notes to you." She crossed her legs, set the notes in her lap, and started explaining thestral biology to him.  
Draco closed his eyes  
"Get up, sleepyhead!" she yelled twenty minutes later, when she realized he had been asleep. She hit him on the head with a chocolate frog box.  
Draco yawned and hit her with his pillow.  
Then they were laughing and throwing sweets at each other, but also eating them and talking, and then one of them would poke the other and they would start again. Draco loved being alone with Pansy. He could be himself, because she understood him completely and he understood her just the same. They could laugh and have a pillow-fight and not be afraid of what anybody would think.  
And Draco realized that he hadn't laughed since he had arrived at Hogwarts. That was why he loved Pansy so much. She made him laugh. Throw his head back and laugh.  
Not that stupid sarcastic Malfoy snicker.  
Really laugh.  
()()()  
Harry opened the door, and jumped when Hermione squealed and ran into his arms. "Harry! I'm so glad you're back!" she cried. Her bushy hair was all in his face. Apparently, she was done being angry at him, which was a huge relief.  
Harry laughed and pulled her close. "I'm glad to be back, too," he said into her hair.  
After a few moments she let him go. "Where were you?" she demanded. "Anastasia and I were so worried!"  
Harry noticed Stasia behind her for the first time, with a small smile on her face. He took her hand.  
Then he noticed the rest of Gryffindor house, all standing around awkwardly and pretending like they weren't listening.  
"I'll tell you later," he said.  
Hermione nodded in understanding. "Okay. Come with us. I can cast a silencing spell if you like. Or do you want to eat first? I saved some food for you from dinner."  
Harry took the sandwich she offered, and then they found a secluded spot under the stairs and Hermione cast the spell. Harry was a bit worried because several people were still watching them, but Hermione assured him that no one could hear a thing they said.  
He proceeded to fill them in about the fight, and the punishment, and how Dra… Malfoy fell off his chair and wasn't breathing. Harry realized that even talking about it made his hands shake. Hermione took his hands in hers and stared into his eyes.  
"You care, don't you?" she asked. "You really care."  
Harry nodded without speaking. He glanced at Stasia, but she was just watching them with a vague smile on her face.  
Hermione sighed. "Then go to him, Harry. You're so worried. You're all tense. Go visit him! Is it really that hard?"  
Harry nodded again.  
Hermione said something to Stasia, and then she cast another spell. "There. Now she can't hear us, either."  
Harry started to protest, but she stopped him. "No, Harry. You're being ridiculous. You're going to hurt her, you know that, but you still persist in this… what even is this? Forcing yourself to like someone you don't even like? Pretending that you don't have a crush the size of a hippogriff… No! No, don't say anything. I'm right. Shut up. I'm right, Harry."  
She closed her eyes, breathing heavily. "Sorry, but I'm literally about to hex you. It's infuriating, watching this go on. And I won't force you to do anything, but you do have to deal with this sometime. Say yes. Say you'll deal with it. Promise me," she stared at him.  
Harry nodded.  
She was right.  
"Thank you," she whispered, then waved her wand. All of a sudden the common room was filled with sound again, and Stasia was there, and she looked at him with a question in her eyes.  
He shook his head.  
She smiled then, and he kissed her, and Hermione glared.  
And he vowed to himself that it would be the last time.  
()()()  
Pansy was gone by midnight. She had wanted to stay longer, but Pomfrey had insisted. (She had a knack for insisting.)  
Draco sighed and lay back in the itchy hospital bed.  
In the morning, he would talk to Potter. He would say sorry, no matter how badly he wanted to say something awful instead. He wouldn't waste his five minutes tomorrow.  
But tonight?  
Tonight he would sleep, and breathe. Tonight was for simple, easy things.  
Draco took a deep breath.  
He lay back.  
And he drifted into a dream.  
()()()  
"Well, Mr. Malfoy, it seems that you are completely healthy," Madam Pomfrey said, the next day.  
Draco leaped out of the hospital bed. "So I can go?" he asked, already halfway out.  
"Not quite yet," Pomfrey said. "I need to go over something with you. And this is important. Please, sit down."  
Draco sat, tapping his foot on the floor impatiently.  
Pomfrey took a deep breath. "Draco, the fact is, you could have died."  
Draco bit his lip. This was not going to be a good thing, was it?  
"If I had not been there to cast that spell on you, I'm not so sure that… you would be okay right now," she said gravely. "Draco, you must not travel alone from now on. Once one of these… I believe they are panic attacks… occurs, you won't be in any state to cast a spell. It's not a difficult one, so you should teach it to your friends, and never walk alone without them. Do you understand?"  
Draco nodded, staring at the floor.  
Suddenly he looked up. "It is," he said.  
Pomfrey looked at him. "What?"  
Draco swallowed. "It is. A panic attack. That's what… what my father said. But I haven't had one since… the summer after first year."  
Pomfrey nodded. "Draco, I may need to ask you a few questions, then. You say you've experienced this before? Very strange," she muttered, getting out a piece of paper.  
"Strange?" Draco asked. "My father said that it's very common."  
Pomfrey smiled. "It is. But… not like what happened to you. Not usually. I'll spare you the details."  
Draco knew that meant, I know something important that I'm not going to tell you. But he didn't particularly want to know.  
"Now. I've got some questions," she said with a smile.  
Draco grimaced.  
It wasn't something he liked to talk about.  
Or even remember.  
The first time… in his father's study. Lucius had said something… Draco couldn't remember. And then he had hit Draco with his cane, nothing serious, just a tap… but suddenly Draco was breathing too fast and he was scared and…  
Lucius had told him later that this was something he might experience for a very long time.  
But he hadn't. Not after second year began. First year? Yes, all the time. He had gotten good at concealing it, though. No one had known. He must have been caught off guard today, or else he was getting worse.  
"When did they begin?" she asked.  
Draco sighed. "When I was ten."  
She looked at him pityingly from behind her paper. Draco wanted to punch her stupid face, but he forced himself to relax. Calm and composed, remember. No freaking out.  
"And was it always like this? Not being able to breathe?"  
Draco hesitated, trying to remember. "Yes," he decided. "Yes, I think so."  
The questions lasted several more minutes, then Pomfrey said, "If this happens again, come to me right away. And remember, don't travel alone. It's for your own good. Teach the spell I showed you to your friends. Now… I think you may go."  
Draco jumped up, grabbed the box of food and his homework, and ran out the door. He was already halfway down the hallway when he backtracked, opened the door again, and yelled, "Thank you!" She had, maybe, saved his life, after all.  
"You're welcome, dear!" came Madam Pomfrey's muffled reply.  
He glanced at the nearest clock. Nearly time for breakfast. But first… he had to see Pansy and the rest. Let them know that he was alright.  
The others would pretend not to care, of course.  
But they probably did.  
But when he opened the door, he was met by Nott, who was glaring at him and raising a fist…  
Draco ducked.  
Nott punched the wall and yelled. "OWW! Bloody fucking pisshole!" He stormed away, waving his hand in the air.  
Bloody fucking pisshole was Nott's favorite sentence, as it brought up a rather disgusting image in everyone's minds when he said it.  
Pansy hexed Nott, and he fell to the floor behind her. "Shut up, Nott. We don't know if it's even true yet," she looked at Draco. "Sorry. I tried to tell him not to punch you in the face as soon as you walked in, but he wouldn't listen."  
Draco straightened up.  
"Good job, by the way. Nice duck," Pansy said. "Now," her voice darkened. "Did you kiss Potter? Or... shag him in the boys bathroom? We've been hearing rumors and, Draco, they're angry," she gestured at the rest of the Slytherins, who were watching intently. "Because, you know, his parents are… were against the Dark Lord."  
Draco stared. Rumors? Oh god.  
"No," he said slowly. "No, I didn't. Of course I didn't, Pansy! Why the hell would I…?"  
The Slytherins behind her started whispering to each other. Draco saw Nott whisper something to Zabini, and then they both laughed.  
Pansy sighed and took him into the hallway, away from the rest. "I believe you. I believe that you didn't kiss him this year, that is. But Draco, what on earth was that about first year? I was there, I heard him say it. He said you kissed him in first year…" she trailed off. "Did you?"  
"No," Draco said. He didn't bother trying to look truthful. Pansy could always see right through him. He settled for nervous, because he actually was. Very nervous.  
Pansy took a deep breath. "Okay. So none of it is actually true. Stupid little… why would Potter say that? He'll pay for it."  
"Pansy, leave it. There are bigger problems, actually. I have to… tell you something else. At breakfast. Not here," Draco knew he looked worried and scared, because that was how he felt.  
Pansy studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Everyone will probably be staring at you, though," she said. "Rumors spread like griffinpox around this school. And, you know, they would rather focus on that than the Dark Lord's rising."  
Draco nodded and followed her down the hallway.  
Oh god. Rumors. No matter what he said, the rest would never believe him. That was how Slytherins worked. Always expecting the worst of everybody.  
And then this could get back to his father… and that would be much worse than whatever he had been worrying about yesterday. He had to write a letter or something…  
And say what? No matter what he said… it would sound suspicious.  
Dear Lucius.  
I know that everyone is saying I snogged the Potter's son, but I swear, I didn't.  
Love Draco.  
He would never believe it if Draco brought it up. It would sound too suspicious. But if Draco didn't bring it up, and someone else told Lucius, what would he think then?  
Draco bit his lip. "Pansy," he whispered. "What if… my father hears about this?" The thought made him feel sick. Breathing faster. Heartbeat racing.  
Pansy looked at him worriedly. "I don't know," was all she said.  
All of a sudden Draco's breathing was going out of control.  
He grabbed Pansy's arm in the middle of the hallway, ignoring the people walking past him. He pulled her close and whispered into her ear. " Reficio… spell." he pointed at himself. He could hardly talk. The world was caving in. He needed to run, to get out. Oh god, he was going to be trapped here forever… but he couldn't move.  
Without even hesitating or asking why, Pansy pulled out her wand and pointed it at him. "Reficio," she said.  
Draco gave a sigh of relief as the horrible feeling slipped away and he could breathe again.  
"Draco," Pansy hissed at him. "What the hell was that?"  
"That's what I was going to tell you about at breakfast," Draco said, still shaking, looking around at all the people staring at him. "Not here. Come with me."  
Pansy glared at him.  
()()()  
Harry and Stasia ate in silence.  
Hermione was sitting with Weasley. Harry didn't know why she would want to sit by him, but she did, and she was even talking to him, for some reason.  
He sighed and glanced at the clock. Stasia was not great at conversation. She only spoke when he asked her a question, and she usually only gave one word answers.  
Ever since Hermione had talked to him last night, he kept on noticing things like that. Things that he didn't like about Anastasia. And… there were a lot.  
But not talking was the worst. He needed her to say something to distract him from the waiting. He was waiting for when Malfoy would walk through that door. He needed to know if he was alright. Suddenly it was extremely important.  
He sighed, and tried to focus on something other than the door.  
Like the fact that everyone was staring at him, and whispering about him. And that Weasley kept on saying, "Can you believe it?" to Longbottom.  
In fact, now Weasley was looking at him. His hair was wild and red and crazy, and he was gnawing on a chicken leg. "Hey, Potter," he said mid-bite.  
Harry looked up warily.  
All talk at the table ceased. "Hey, Potter," Weasley said again, dropping the chicken leg now that he had everyone's attention. "Is it true? That Malfoy fucked you?" he said with a laugh. "Probably pushed him up against the sink and…" Weasley made a gesture that made Longbottom spit out his soup. "In proper Malfoy fashion, of course. Right up his…"  
The next word was interrupted by Hermione slapping him in the face.  
No one spoke, but Harry felt a rush of gratitude towards Hermione. He was so happy that she was his friend.  
"Let's go, Harry," Hermione said. She stuffed her books into her bag and grabbed his hand. Anastasia followed them, looking slightly bewildered. Harry was sorry that she had to hear that, but she would just have to get over it.  
Then the door opened, and in walked Malfoy.  
"Looks who's here," Weasley said, pretending he hadn't just been punched.  
"Shut up, Weasley," Hermione said, raising her fist.  
Weasley shut up.  
Malfoy was walking hand in hand with Pansy, and Harry felt a stab of jealousy. Then he noticed how pale Malfoy was, and how tired he looked, and how his knees were shaking… He wanted to go and find out if he was okay, but he couldn't.  
Why did everything have to be so complicated?  
But at least he was walking. And he was talking to Pansy, and joking with her, from the looks of it. Harry was a little bit worried when he saw that none of the other Slytherins appeared to be talking to them, but that was to be expected, he realized. Everyone thought that Malfoy and him had shagged, apparently. Or at least kissed, or something. The Slytherins wouldn't like that.  
But it could have been worse.  
Harry looked away, and Hermione led him and Anastasia out of the great hall.  
As soon as the door closed behind them, Hermione looked at them with fury in her eyes. "What an absolute bloody bastard!" she cried.  
"Asshole," Harry agreed.  
"Idiot."  
"Troll."  
"Prick."  
Anastasia just smiled, and Hermione looked at her with distaste. "Oh, at least say something," she said, sounding exasperated.  
Anastasia blinked.  
"Hey, Hermione…" Harry trailed off.  
Hermione turned on him. "No, Harry. She heard what Weasley said, those awful, terrible things he said to you. And she just… stands there and smiles, like nothing happened at all!"  
Anastasia wasn't smiling anymore. She scowled at Hermione, but didn't speak.  
Hermione glared at her. "Defend yourself! Say... something! Anything!"  
Harry stepped in front of Anastasia. "No, Hermione. This isn't right. I said that I would talk to her, not you."  
Stasia looked at him worriedly.  
"Then talk to her! Tell her!" Hermione took a deep breath and stepped away. "Sorry. I… it just makes me angry, Harry."  
"Fine," Harry said. "I'll talk to her. Alone. I will."  
Hermione nodded. "Of course. But you'd better tell her the truth, Harry."  
Harry nodded, and they walked to Potions class in silence.  
()()()  
"Harry," Anastasia said, before they entered the classroom. Hermione was in the bathroom, so she didn't have to worry about that.  
Anastasia didn't like Hermione. She felt much more comfortable without the other girl around, looming over her, picking out her every flaw.  
"Hmm?" Harry asked. He looked uncomfortable. Like he would rather be anywhere else.  
But Stasia had to ask.  
"Was it true?" she said. "What Ron Weasley said… about you and Malfoy. Was it true?"  
Harry studied the floor for a few moments. Anastasia loved the way his glasses slipped down his nose, the brilliance of his green eyes. She stared at him, drinking in his face while she still could.  
She wasn't stupid.  
Anastasia knew that he didn't like her anymore. She wasn't sure when it had happened, but suddenly everything felt forced and fake between them. She knew that everything would probably end soon, but she couldn't help wanting to hang on until the last moment. She did love him, she really did, and it was hard to let go.  
Harry looked at her. "No," he said.  
She didn't know if he was lying, but she decided to believe him.  
()()()  
Pansy stirred her coffee thoughtfully. "Wow. That… sucks," she said.  
Draco nodded. As soon as they had sat down, Pansy had made him tell her all about what had happened back in the hallway, and now he felt a little bit exhausted.  
Pansy took a sip. "I love you, you know that? In an entirely platonic way, of course."  
Draco smiled. "I love you platonically, too."  
She laughed. "Remember when we tried to date in third year? What a disaster!"  
Draco smirked. "You were an awful kisser."  
"The sex was good, though," Pansy said, shrugging and taking another sip.  
Draco laughed and poked her in the side.  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: rat guts, un-Malfoyness, and Crucio.  
> Please review! Sorry for asking so often, but they really do encourage me... I love them so much.


	8. Seven - Rat Guts

Seven.  
Rat Guts.  
()()()  
Theodore Nott smirked at all the Slytherins gathered around him. They all had the same nasty glint in their eye, they all felt the same anticipation in the air, they all watched the door.   
"Remember," he said. "You. Stinging hexes," he pointed at a group of Slytherins in the corner, who were holding their wands out like swords and smiling. But not happy smiles, oh no.   
Snake smiles.  
Nott turned to Blaise, who was next to him. "Crucio." Blaise nodded.  
Nott listed out the rest of the hexes and curses, and the Slytherins nodded and smiled their snakey smiles.   
It was only just, after all.  
This was his revenge. His perfect revenge. Nott loved revenge.   
Oh, yes, Draco Malfoy would regret everything he had done.  
Nott gripped his wand tighter, pointing it at the door, waiting for the perfect moment. Anticipating the pain and fear in his eyes. Nott loved pain, and he loved fear. It was a Slytherin thing.  
Malfoy wouldn't get it.   
That was why they had to do this. Malfoy wasn't a Slytherin anymore. Snogging, maybe even shagging Potter. The thought made Nott want to throw up, because he was a proper Slytherin. And besides that, Nott knew that Malfoy had refused the Dark Mark. His father had told him, of course. And Malfoy would pay dearly for that. No one disrespects the Dark Lord.   
So Nott watched the clock, and waited for the door to open.  
()()()  
Draco tried to ignore the way that Pansy was watching him. Like he was a precious little glass sculpture that could fall and break into a million pieces at any moment. She had her wand only inches from her hand, ready to Reficio him at any moment.  
It made him angry. He didn't want anyone to think he was delicate. It didn't matter if it was his sworn enemy or his best friend. He liked it better when people were scared of him, respected him.  
Of course, Pansy was was a friend. But he still hated it when she looked at him that way.  
The problem with trying to ignore Pansy was that he always ended up looking at Harry. He tried to concentrate on Snape's lesson on Rat Gut Potions, but his brain, apparently, would rather spend its time soaking up every little detail about Harry.  
His glasses were crooked.  
His robe was falling off his shoulder, but he didn't seem to notice.  
He was doodling on his paper. Draco couldn't see what it was.  
"Mr. Longbottom?" Snape asked with a sneer.  
Finally, a distraction.  
Draco watched as Longbottom looked up. He looked terrified, as if he was looking at a werewolf instead of a professor. "Yes, sir?" he asked in that needly little voice.  
Snape smirked. "Can you tell me what would happen if I tried to use mouse guts instead of rat guts, Mr. Longbottom?"  
Longbottom paled. "Umm…" Draco could see the wheels turning. Slowly, but still turning. "It would… taste like mice?" he ventured.  
And this was the one who was supposed to save the Wizarding World from the Dark Lord? They would all be dead by tomorrow.  
Draco raised his hand, glancing smugly at Longbottom's pale face. "It would explode, Professor," he said.  
Snape nodded at him. "Yes. Very good, Mr. Malfoy."  
Draco smirked. Pansy rolled her eyes. "You get too much satisfaction out of answering before Longbottom," she said.  
Draco ignored her.  
()()()  
Harry could feel Malfoy's eyes on him.  
It made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Harry wished he knew what Malfoy was thinking. He always did. Malfoy's face was always perfect and always the same. That smirk, or maybe a sneer. Impossible to read, and Harry liked to think that he was decent at reading people.  
Harry allowed himself to smile, thinking about Malfoy's face. He looked down at his paper and saw that he was drawing it. Paper Draco looked back at him and smirked.  
He almost forgot that he was angry with him for what he had said back in the hospital wing. Making fun of Harry for being happy that he was alive.  
But he didn't forget, not quite.  
Harry crumpled up the paper.  
Harry sighed, thinking about detention later that day. An hour of cleaning gut-filled cauldrons, alone with Malfoy. He wasn't sure if he would be more likely to punch him or kiss him in his sneering face.  
It wasn't as if Harry liked him. (That's what he told himself.) He had attacked bloody Malfoy yesterday, after all.  
But… in the heat of the moment, when Malfoy was looking at him, there was this… this thing that overtook Harry. It made him want to jump at Malfoy and kiss him on the mouth.  
But Harry didn't want that.  
(Yes. Great explanation. Bravo.)  
Harry scowled at his Potions homework. Detention was going to be terrible. He just knew it.  
Then Potions was over, and Harry grabbed Stasia's hand and kissed her on the cheek where Malfoy could see, so that he wouldn't get any ideas.  
(What was he doing? Using Stasia to make bloody Malfoy jealous?)  
Harry tried to shake the thought away.  
Malfoy walked past without looking at him.  
Hermione glared at Harry.  
()()()  
The day passed by like a blur.  
Draco sighed as he headed to the Potions classroom for Dumbledore's detention.  
Pansy was with him. She had insisted on coming with, even though Draco had argued that he could walk down a corridor perfectly well, she said that she didn't want to see anything bad happen to him. And Draco had to admit that it did make him feel better, having her there.  
He looked through the window at the classroom. Perfect, no one was there.  
"Are you scared?" Pansy asked.  
He turned, and saw that she was looking at him intently, with one eyebrow raised. He sighed and leaned against the wall so that they were facing each other.  
"Yes," he said.  
Pansy nodded. "Good. At least you're not lying. And for the record," she said, when he tried to turn away. "I would be scared too."  
Draco stared at her until it clicked. Then he scowled. "How long have you known?"  
Pansy smirked. "Ever since the fight. It's not like Potter to yell out that he snogged someone when he's angry at them. And you never denied it."  
"Of course I did!" Draco protested, thinking of all of the bratty little first years he had snapped at. "No, I didn't shag Harry bloody Potter!"  
Pansy smiled. "Never to me. And I would have found out anyway, from the way you ogle him. I was a little bit put off that you never told me you were gay, but I'll let that go," she said with a smirk. Then she got serious. "Draco, this is dangerous. I mean, it's not like he's the boy who bloody lived or anything, but his parents fought against Voldemort. The Death Eaters tortured them to insanity. I heard they're still in St. Mungo's now. The Dark Lord won't forgive you," she said sadly.  
Draco looked away. "He won't have to."  
Pansy nodded. "Good. Then go on."  
Feeling considerably lighter, he said goodbye to Pansy, entered the Potions classroom, and proceeded to scowl when he saw clothespins and rubber gloves on the table. He could already smell the rat guts.  
Draco moved one of the chairs over several feet so that he could sit down and rest his feet on the table. It was a very uncomfortable position, but it was worth it for Harry's scowl when he walked in and saw Draco sitting there "casually", gesturing at the rubber gloves. "Ready for a fun, new, fashionable choice of clothing, Potter? You could really use one."  
It was true. Harry wore nearly the same clothes every day.  
Harry groaned and sat down. "Do you ever stop being a prick, Malfoy?"  
Draco removed his feet from the table. "About that, Potter. I was going to tell you, that I am, in fact, extremely, extraordinarily, very," Draco paused for effect. "Very, very," he continued. Harry groaned again. Draco smirked. "Sorry," he finished.  
Harry stared at him. His eyes were huge, and that was quite unflattering. Draco smirked when Harry realized his mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut.  
"What?" he asked. "Seriously?"  
Draco sneered. "You heard me, Potter. I won't say it again."  
Harry appeared to be contemplating this for a few moments. Then he smiled and said, "I forgive you."  
Some inner part of Draco's being bristled at this. Malfoys, by definition, did not apologize and definitely did not accept forgiveness for their actions. But after a bit of inner turmoil, he pushed this down and nodded.  
Harry smiled triumphantly.  
And Snape swept into the classroom. "Gloves on," he said with a sneer. He disappeared into another room and emerged with about twenty foul-smelling cauldrons hovering through the air ahead of him. He arranged them all on the table in front of Draco and Harry.  
Draco cautiously peered into one of the cauldrons and immediately wished he hadn't. It was filled with the hardened remains of rat intestines and kidneys, and with a mysterious oozing sludge. There were some white things floating in it that looked suspiciously like rat eyeballs  
Draco looked away, fighting the urge to throw up. Harry looked like he was in a similar state.  
Perhaps simply being around each other wasn't their biggest problem, after all.  
"Put the remnants in the buckets," Snape said, gesturing at two buckets next to their chairs. He sneered at them and handed them each a clothespin before sweeping out the door. It slammed behind him, and then they were alone.  
"Well," Harry said nervously. "I guessed we should, er…" he eyed the cauldrons with distaste.  
Draco rolled his eyes and reached his hand into the nearest cauldron. Harry's eyes went even wider as Draco pulled his hand out. He was holding a fistful of wet, slimy, juicy guts. Even through the glove Draco could feel how cold they were. He nearly gagged on the stench, even through the clothespin.  
He dumped them into the bucket, trying to ignore the disgusting sound they made as they landed.  
"Not so difficult," Draco said, wiping the slime on the side of the cauldron. "Just takes a bit of courage. Right, Gryffindor?"  
Harry scowled at him and pulled some guts out of another cauldron. The look on his face was delightful to look at.  
"Any potion made with this stuff couldn't possibly be worth making," Harry said. He pushed his glasses up to his forehead with his elbow, and Draco found himself staring. Damn. Harry looked great without his glasses.  
"What are you looking at?" Harry asked, glaring at Draco.  
Draco shook himself and looked away.  
Maybe… maybe he was doing this wrong. Maybe he was forgetting the rules. Five minutes. Maybe it had been five minutes already, and maybe if he kept this up they were going to get too close. If they became friends (or more), it was ridiculous to think that Draco's father would never hear about it.  
But Draco couldn't bring himself to be cruel to Harry. Not right now, when they were standing there and not fighting, like normal people peacefully scraping rat guts out of cauldrons together.  
Even though he should.  
He shouldn't have apologized either, should he? Harry might think that they could be friends now, but they couldn't, even though Draco wanted it more than anything else.  
His father would find out.  
And Draco would die.  
He realized that he was breathing too fast.  
No, no, no. Not now. Not fucking now.  
Harry noticed immediately. "Draco?" he asked. "Are you…" and then it must have dawned on him, because Draco could see the fear in his face.  
Draco ripped off his gloves and pulled Harry close. "Reficio," he hissed into Harry's ear.  
Harry nodded. He ripped off his gloves too, and, like Pansy had, he pulled out his wand without even asking and said, "Reficio!" Except that his voice was trembling while Pansy's hand been firm, and his arm was shaking while Pansy's had been strong.  
But it didn't matter. The spell worked either way.  
Draco collapsed against the table. He let out a deep, deep breath. "Thanks, Potter," he managed to say. It was few moments before he was able to paste a sneer onto his face.  
Draco realized that he was getting worse. Last time, it had taken at least two minutes before he had realized something was wrong. This time, he hadn't been able to breathe almost immediately.  
What would happen next time?  
Harry looked panicked. "Are you… okay?" he asked, putting his glasses back on and running his fingers through his hair. He almost touched Draco's arm, but then hesitated and withdrew his hand.  
Draco shakily stood up. "Never better," he said sarcastically, but his voice came out trembling. Draco cursed his vocal chords.  
"What… what happened?" Harry asked. "Was that the same thing that…"  
"None of your business, Potter," Draco just wanted to forget that that had happened. It was embarrassing. Why did it have to happen in front of Harry, of all people? Malfoys didn't show weakness, especially in front of their enemies. Draco would never be able to live this down.  
Harry looked at him. "Are you… are you sure? Should I tell…"  
"No. You don't tell anyone," Draco hissed. "In fact, you forget that this whole fiasco ever happened, right?"  
Harry nodded and pulled his gloves back on. They spent a few agonizingly quiet minutes scooping out handfuls of intestines before Harry suddenly stopped and stared at his cauldron like he was thinking hard about something.  
"Reficio..." Harry said. "That was the spell that…" suddenly he stopped talking. "Nevermind," he muttered.  
Draco raised an eyebrow but didn't ask.  
Harry sighed, turned, and looked at Draco. "I'm sorry too, by the way," he said.  
Draco was caught off guard. Sorry? For what? He jumped when he heard the guts he was holding slop onto the table. "Oops," he said.  
"Did you actually say 'oops'?" Harry asked with a smirk. "How disturbingly un-Malfoy of you."  
Draco pretended to scowl. He didn't even know what he actually felt when Harry said that.  
"What on earth could you be sorry for, Potter?" he asked, pretending that he didn't care what the answer was. He couldn't think of a single thing that Harry would want to apologize for.  
Harry looked confused. "For attacking you in Defense class, of course. I thought you would remember that. It only happened yesterday, after all."  
Only yesterday? That felt like a lifetime ago.  
Draco sighed. "Potter, I was being a complete and utter prick. It was understandable. And I punched back, didn't I?"  
"Well, I guess so… but I'm still sorry," Harry looked at the ground, suddenly looking uncomfortable, like he thought he'd shared too much.  
Draco studied him for a moment.  
He could usually read people perfectly. People like Weasley and Longbottom and even Granger. He knew what they wanted and what they felt just by looking at them.  
But Harry? Draco didn't understand why Harry felt guilty. He had nothing to apologize for.  
Maybe he had only apologized because Draco had.  
"I forgive you, Potter," Draco said with a sigh, because Harry had been staring at him. Harry nodded, smiled slightly, and looked away.  
They descended into silence again, but this time it wasn't quite so agonizing.  
()()()  
Harry had never truly appreciated how difficult it is to look at someone, and at the same time pretend to not be looking at them.  
And it was so hard to resist the urge to reach out, to touch him, to make sure he was okay.  
Normally, Draco was a git. He was cruel, and proud, and insufferable.  
But Harry had always seen right through that. He would never forget first year, when Draco had been nice and he had really smiled.  
And the kiss.  
Sometimes he thought he had dreamt it.  
But he knew he wasn't dreaming this. Draco wasn't being a git right now. He was just… standing there. Harry knew he should say something.  
But what?  
And how?  
And it didn't matter, because he would always been too afraid to say anything to Draco. Five years of ignoring each other (except for insults) had changed everything. Harry couldn't just say something to Draco.  
And then there was that… thing that kept happening. The thing where Draco couldn't breathe and then…  
Reficio.  
The spell Harry had used in first year, to make everyone wake up.  
He still couldn't believe that Draco had been his friend back then.  
And it was hard to know what to do, because this Draco wasn't his friend, but wasn't exactly an enemy, either.  
Maybe Harry should just keep his mouth shut.  
()()()  
Snape swept back into the classroom and announced that detention was over, and that was that. Harry was gone before Snape had finished the sentence.  
Draco scowled when Pansy asked him how it went. "Fine," he said with an angry shrug.  
Pansy looked suspicious. "Are you sure? Because you look really, really angry."  
Pansy was great, but she could be extremely annoying when she wanted to know something. "I said fine," Draco said, walking past her with a Snape-like swish of his robes.  
Pansy ran after him and tugged on his sleeve. "Draco," she said, pulling on his shoulder and spinning him around. "You can tell me, you know? I'm your friend."  
Draco struggled to get his emotions back under control. It wasn't that big of a deal, right? But he really, really didn't want to tell her about the panic attack. The way she looked at him was already bad enough.  
"It happened again, didn't it?" Pansy said, looking into his face like she could read it.  
"How do you always know?" Draco asked. He was so tired. He was sick of pretending. Perhaps it would be good to just tell her.  
Pansy smiled. "Your eyes. Eyes are the windows to the soul, after all."  
Draco thought he had heard that somewhere before, but he couldn't remember.  
"I'm sorry that it happened in front of Potter," Pansy said. She sighed and ran a hand through her red hair. "Come on," she said. "Let's go home."  
()()()  
The Slytherin common room was a quiet as a graveyard. No one moving, no one speaking. Just the crackle of the fire, the creak of a floorboard from upstairs, the flicker of a shadow across the floor.  
That was when Draco realized that the last time he had been in here, Nott had tried to punch him.  
And then there was an eerie whisper from the entire room, and Pansy pulled Draco back just in time as a million flashes of light exploded everywhere. The lights all went out, and Draco couldn't see anything but beams of green and red and orange, darting back and forth, deadly as poisonous snakes.  
One hit him in the arm and he screamed when it stabbed him.  
One hit him in the leg and it turned to jelly, and then he was flailing around like a fish on the floor.  
He heard Pansy's scream and then she was gone. There was crash and something landed broken on the floor.  
Another flash hit him, and there was a blinding pain, and everything was dark.  
()()()  
Hermione and Anastasia met Harry outside of the Potions classroom. "How was it?" Hermione asked. She had been worrying about Harry's detention all afternoon. What if it went badly, and they ended up attacking each other? Sure, Dumbledore had put a spell on the classroom that would alert Snape if anything went wrong, but what if he didn't get there in time?  
She was also… interested. She wondered if they would end up getting along because of this. Maybe they would become friends again. Or more.  
Harry just shrugged, however. "Fine, I guess. He…" Harry was staring at her, but Hermione had the unsettling feeling that he wasn't seeing her. "Nevermind," Harry muttered. Stasia looked at him strangely, but didn't ask. Of course she didn't.  
"What?" Hermione asked. "You can tell me."  
Harry just shook his head. "It was nothing."  
Hermione studied his face. He didn't seem happy about whatever it was. That wasn't a good sign. Hermione sighed. She wanted them to get along.  
Harry turned, and Hermione followed his gaze. Dumbledore and McGonagall were hurrying down a hallway. Hermione could catch bits of their conversation.  
"Just walked into the Slytherin common room," McGonagall was saying. "And then Mr. Nott was running up to me and yelling something about stinging hexes…."  
Harry walked down the hallway and started following them, slowly, almost as if he didn't realize it. Hermione had an inkling suspicion that whatever this was, it had something to do with Malfoy.  
"Come on, let's go back to the common room," she said to Stasia, resigning herself to another hour or two spent with terrible company.  
()()()  
"Disgraceful," McGonagall muttered again, which brought back bad memories.  
Draco groaned.  
He was floating through the air, rigid as a board, and everything hurt. His leg felt… extremely weird. He couldn't quite describe it. It was like someone had layered his leg in jello.  
If I ever get my hands on Nott, his rat guts will be all over the ground.  
He looked to the left and saw Pansy floating along beside him. Her eyes were open too, and she was staring up at the ceiling.  
Draco decided to stare at the ceiling too. It was gray, and very boring, and actually quite ugly.  
But it was better than focusing on the pain.  
Once he could walk again, he would hex Nott into oblivion. Actually, he would hex the whole lot of them. The others must have been in on it, too. They would all have to pay. Bloody idiots.  
Draco tried to twist around to see underneath him, but he could hardly even move. He knew McGonagall was there, but who else? Did anyone else know what had happened to him?  
And he tried not to think about it, but there was always that worry… about what his father would say.  
But no he couldn't think about that. If he had a panic attack while he was frozen in midair, unable to even speak, unable to do anything….  
And that thought got his blood racing. And panic shooting up his arms and to his head. The thought of dying slowly, suffocating silently, only feet away from the people who could save you with a single word.  
Draco willed himself to calm down.  
He looked over and saw Pansy looking at him, and the fear in her eyes was obvious. Draco couldn't breathe anymore.  
He stared at the ceiling.  
Stop.  
Look.  
Just breathe.  
Their bodies floated closer, and Pansy was able to intertwine her fingers in his.  
And Draco started breathing again.  
He smiled in his mind. Well, that was interesting.  
Definitely an improvement.  
Could he be getting better?  
Was that even possible?  
Suddenly they stopped moving. Draco felt himself being lowered to the ground and laid on something soft. He saw Dumbledore, wearing obnoxious purple robes. McGonagall leaned over him, smiled, and nodded.  
And Draco could move.  
Instantly he jumped up, the complaint on the tip of his tongue. He was going to yell and shout at them, because he had almost died. Hadn't he?  
But then he saw Harry, standing behind Dumbledore.  
Pansy looked at him, and then she started to speak. "Professor, Draco was…"  
"No, Pansy," Draco said. "Just leave it."  
Pansy looked like she wanted to argue. Instead, she leaned closer and whispered into his ear. "Okay, but if this happens again, I'm telling."  
Draco stared at her. Her eyes were dark and serious, and they didn't look away.  
He nodded.  
Then she smiled and kissed him on the cheek, and any other time Draco would have been mortified because Harry was right there but… right now he didn't care. In fact, he liked it. Because he still felt better when Harry was there. Harry had defeated Voldemort in first year, after all. And Draco knew it was irrational, but he couldn't help thinking that if Harry had defeated Voldemort in first year, surely he could defeat whatever was wrong with Draco.  
"Draco," Dumbledore asked, leaning closer and adjusting his spectacles. His eyes were so shimmering and sad that Draco felt a stab of annoyance. He wasn't that pathetic, was he?  
Dumbledore sighed. "Draco, who did this to you?" he asked.  
Harry breathed in sharply. Draco heard it.  
Pansy put her arm on his shoulder and whispered again. "Don't tell," she whispered.  
Draco whispered back, "I wasn't going to."  
Because if the Slytherins got into trouble, and they got angry, whatever happened next would be much worse than a few hexes. They would either kill him, or injure him, or… tell his father.  
Dumbledore watched this exchange with a dangerous glint in his eye. "Mr. Malfoy, Miss Parkinson. Please refrain from conversation. It is imperative that I know who did this to the both of you. They must be expelled immediately, to remove further danger from you and other students. Do you understand?"  
Draco and Pansy nodded.  
Dumbledore took a deep breath, and in a falsely pleasant voice, he said, "Then tell me." He leaned back then, and folded his hands, waiting.  
Pansy and Draco looked at each other.  
"It was an accident, sir," Draco said, loathing every word. He wanted to tell Dumbledore. He wanted Nott and the rest to regret the day they had been born. They deserved punishment. What if they hurt someone else? What if they hurt Pansy, really hurt her?  
Pansy nodded. "I'm so sorry."  
"It was my fault," they said, at the same time.  
How did she always know what he was thinking? She looked at him again, with a small, sad smile. He could tell that she wanted to hug him, but she wouldn't. Not here.  
Dumbledore sighed. "Well, Minerva, it seems that our efforts are no longer required. Poppy has ordered that the two of you remain here for several hours, but there is no lasting damage. A punishment will have to be administered, of course. And… if you happen to remember something, or someone, else that was involved in your little accident, do not hesitate to tell me."  
Draco and Pansy nodded and smiled.  
Then Dumbledore and McGonagall were gone.  
Pansy settled back into the too-soft hospital pillow. Draco sighed. This itchy bed again.  
Then he remembered that Harry was still there.  
"Potter?" he asked, as Pomfrey came running into the room. "Why are you here?"  
Harry opened his mouth to answer, but Pomfrey (damn her) interrupted him. "Now, Harry, I really must insist that you let these two get some rest! They have had a very long day, I am sure." Pomfrey put a hand on Harry's shoulder and steered him out of the hospital wing. The door slammed shut behind him.  
Draco groaned and lay down on the itchy hospital bed. He would never know what Harry had been about to say. He wanted desperately to know why Harry would care enough about Draco to come see him in the hospital wing.  
Pomfrey smiled widely as she gave him the Instant Sleep potion.  
()()()  
Harry banged his head on the wall outside the hospital wing. Students were walking past him, looking at him oddly, but he didn't care. Stupid Pomfrey. Why did she think he had come there? It definitely wasn't to watch Dumbledore ask Draco questions that he could never answer. He wanted to talk to Draco. He hadn't earlier, and now… he wanted to show that he cared.  
Which was something he had never thought that he would say.  
But ever since the thing in Dumbledore's office, Harry had been worried about Draco. He just wanted to make sure that he was okay, of course. No other reason.  
None.  
Since when was his name Draco? Asked Harry's brain.  
No, shut up. Harry told his brain. This was ridiculous. Harry hated Malfoy. He always had. He always would.  
Not true. Don't you remember first year? Or is your memory that bad?  
First year. But that was just a fluke. An accident in the owlery. He didn't mean to kiss him.  
How can you kiss someone accidentally?  
Harry banged his head on the wall again, willing his mind to shut up.  
And don't forget second year. You spent the first six months pining after him. In fact… I don't think you ever stopped. You stare at him during every class. You draw pictures of him on your class notes.  
"That doesn't count!" Harry screamed.  
Out loud.  
He looked up suddenly and glanced around. A few people were staring at him.  
"Goddammit," Harry whispered. "This is what you get for being so fucking annoying."  
And… now you're talking to yourself. Not that you weren't earlier, but now you're actually talking out loud. It's a bit worrying, actually.  
Harry kicked the wall.  
A first year ran backwards down the hallway. Harry glared at him, and he scurried away even faster.  
And then Hermione came walking towards him. Harry grinned, ran towards her, and wrapped her up in a hug. Her hair smelled like oranges. She was carrying a wrapped package in her hands, and once they stepped away she pushed it into his hand. "Treacle tart," she said, smiling. "Figured you would be hungry."  
Harry didn't take time to decipher her words, because he was already digging in.  
Hermione laughed. "You're worse than Weasley!" Then she made exaggerated gagging noises when Harry burped loudly.  
"Excuse me," he said with a sheepish smile. Hermione rolled her eyes and punched him lightly on the arm.  
"By the way," she said. "How is Malfoy? Is he still in there?" she gestured at the door to the hospital wing.  
Harry was confused. "How did you know about that?"  
"Ernie Macmillan," Hermione said with distaste. "He found out from one of the Slytherins, and, naturally, now everyone knows. I hope Malfoy wasn't trying to keep it quiet."  
Harry kicked the ground with his toes. "I think he was. He wouldn't tell Dumbledore who did it."  
Hermione took a moment to digest this information, then nodded as if she understood perfectly. "Makes sense," she said soberly. "It was probably the Slytherins, and Malfoy didn't want them to get in trouble. They would be really angry then. Who knows what they would do?"  
Harry decided that he hated Slytherins.  
Well, not all. Any Slytherins that weren't Draco and Pansy.  
Not that he liked Draco, of course.  
"Anyway," Hermione said, blatantly changing the subject. "Quidditch match. Want to watch?"  
Harry shook his head. He hadn't even been aware that there was a Quidditch match. He didn't have much interest for Quidditch. There had never been any space on the team, after all, and just sitting and watching a sport didn't sound very interesting to him. "I should probably study, and see Stasia," he said. Hermione grimaced when he said Stasia's name, as he knew she would. "Thanks for the tart," he said, and she smiled again.  
"No problem," she said. "I told Stasia that you like treacle tart, and she made it for you." She sighed, shrugged her shoulders, and walked away with a bounce of bushy hair.  
Harry turned, and caught Theodore Nott staring at him. Nott's eyes lingered for a second too long before he looked away, and disappeared around the corner with a swish of his robes.  
Did all Slytherins swish their robes like that?  
Harry watched the place where he had disappeared for a few moments, then shrugged and continued on his way. A few first years darted out of his path.  
He had to see Stasia.  
She must be worried. And so much had happened… she must be dying to know. He could imagine her, sitting at a table alone (because when she was nervous, she didn't talk), taking shaky sips of water (because when she was nervous, her throat got dry), chewing on her fingernails (because when she was nervous, she bit her fingernails).  
Worrying about him.  
But part of him thought… what if she didn't? What if she didn't care? What if she didn't even know that anything was wrong? She could be very clueless sometimes. A lot of the time, actually.  
Stop.  
Don't think that.  
But when Harry walked into the common room and Anastasia got up to greet him, with that same vague smile on her face and a hand of playing cards in her hand, and she said, "Fred, George, and I are playing cards. Wanna join?" Harry couldn't contain it any longer.  
"Don't you ever say anything that matters?" Harry asked, with venom in his voice. He regretted it immediately when her smile disappeared and she dropped the playing cards.  
Fred said something he couldn't hear, and then the two twins were getting up and leaving, and everyone else was politely pretending to ignore them.  
Harry would have to do this now.  
"What do you mean?" Stasia asked, in a tiny little trembling voice.  
Harry took a deep breath.  
But then stopped.  
No. Why was he doing this? She didn't mean anything by it. So Harry had detention with Malfoy. So what? Stasia wouldn't care about that. Why should she? And Harry went to the hospital wing to visit Malfoy and Pansy after they had been hexed by their own house… but how was Stasia supposed to know that? And how was she supposed to know how Harry felt about it? How much he cared?  
It wasn't her fault.  
"Nothing," he said.  
And she smiled and believed him.  
Stupid, stupid, stupid. You have to end it sometime. You can't do this to her.  
Harry took her hand. It felt wrong. It felt fake. But he forced himself to smile and say, "Thanks for the tart."  
()()()  
"Oh dear," Pomfrey said.  
"What?" Draco asked. He was feeling very irritable, as all he wanted to do was leave this itchy bed and get back to his nice, soft, Slytherin bed.  
Well… maybe not. Maybe he didn't want to go back there, not with all the Slytherins, who were apparently ready to hex him at any moment.  
Pomfrey was still standing there with her mouth open.  
Draco sat up and said, "What?" again.  
Pansy was chewing thoughtfully on a piece of gum. "Diagnosis Charm," she said. "Pomfrey just cast it. It'll show all the spells that hit us."  
Pomfrey turned to glare at Pansy. "How on earth do you explain this? How could this ever have been an accident? You were hit with at least five spells, all at once. And Mr. Malfoy was hit with ten! And one of them was Crucio!"  
Draco swallowed nervously. Oh. So that's what that blinding pain was.  
Pomfrey started to walk away. "I'll have to consult Dumbledore. We may have to resort to Veritaserum if you two won't tell us who did this." She walked out the door and slammed it behind her.  
Draco and Pansy looked at each other. The fear was clear in Pansy's face. Her voice was wavering slightly. "If they get in trouble, it'll be worse than them just being angry. They'll tell their parents, of course they will. And their parents will wonder why on earth a Malfoy and a Parkinson would ever get their little Death Eater spawn in trouble with Dumbledore. They'll probably tell about all the rumors, too. Your father will find out. He'll think you shagged Potter." Pansy fell back against the pillows.  
"What do we do?" Draco asked.  
"Make them believe us."  
"How?"  
"I don't know."  
"She's going to tell Dumbledore! Now! We don't have time!"  
"Shush. I'm thinking," Pansy said. She blew a bubble. Then she sighed. "We'll have to say it was someone else. Probably the Gryffindors. Maybe the Hufflepuffs. It could work, as long as they don't use a truth serum. I don't think they will, though. Not if we pretend to tell them the truth."  
"Standard Slytherin manipulation, then," Draco said. "How hard can this be?"  
Pansy smirked.  
()()()  
A paper landed next to his arm. Harry looked up and saw Weasley. "Read it," he said.  
Harry glared at Weasley, trying to force as much loathing into his eyes as was physically possible. Then he picked up the paper and read it.  
First Task to be Dragons!  
Three massive dragons - a ferocious Hungarian Horntail, a vicious Swedish Shortsnout, and a very hungry Chinese Fireball - are currently being shipped from Romania to France.  
Charlie Weasley, who has provided the dragons, states: "These dragons are the finest of the flock! The highest of the herd! The greatest of the group! The superest of the set!"  
The rest of Charlie's commentary has been sadly misplaced.  
Mr. Ludo Bagman of the Ministry of Magic states: "Damn, am I glad I left England! I get to see young children get attacked by huge dragons, and the rest of those suckers over there are fighting You-Know-Who for me? It must be Christmas!"  
The dragons will arrive in France on November 1st, and the first task will take place on November 3rd. Everyone in Europe agrees, it will be spectacular.  
"Everyone in Europe," Weasley said with a snort. "Well, I don't agree. Sod off, Skeeter. That's what I say."  
"Good for you," Harry said, handing the paper back to Weasley and taking a bite of toast. Weasley stared at him for a few moments, then glared and walked away. And sat by Hermione. And she smiled at him.  
Harry rolled his eyes. He would never understand what she saw in him. He was an ugly little worm, in Harry's opinion. But Hermione was one for always finding the good in people. Maybe she would find some in Weasley, eventually. But the fact that she was talking to him after what he had said yesterday did annoy him, just a little bit.  
Harry glanced around the great hall. Almost everyone was reading the paper. Some people were shouting, others had ripped it into pieces. Longbottom had crumpled it up and poured orange juice over it. Harry saw Dumbledore rip a page out and stuff it into one of the pockets of his bright green robes, whispering something to McGonagall. McGonagall tapped Snape and Professor Hagrid, the Care of Magical Creatures teacher, on the shoulder. Then all four of them left the great hall.  
Harry wished he had an invisibility cloak. He could have followed them.  
Instead, he picked at his scrambled eggs for a few minutes, watching Hermione and Weasley, and trying to pretend that Stasia wasn't sitting next to him, looking at him with those big heart eyes. And trying not to think about Pansy and Draco in the hospital wing.  
Harry sighed, trying not to look at the Slytherin table. It was so strange, not being able to look and see them there. The great hall was full of people, but somehow, it felt practically empty.  
And Luna tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me?" she said.  
Harry tried not to stare at her turnip earrings and her bright pink glasses. Instead, he focused on her long blonde hair, and her bright blue eyes. He smiled, and she sat down next to him.  
"I've been meaning to tell you," she said seriously, looking around to make sure that no one was listening. Harry leaned closer. Whatever this was, it must be important. He didn't want to miss it.  
"What?" he asked, when Luna didn't say anything for a few moments.  
She sighed, and took a deep breathe, then looked him right in the eye. "You have purple Dimbles now," she said.  
Harry didn't know how to respond. "Er… is that bad?" he asked.  
Luna looked flabbergasted. "Of course it's bad! Purple is almost as bad as orange, when it comes to Dimbles. Haven't you read the Quibbler? My dad writes it."  
Harry had never read the Quibbler, but he nodded anyway. He didn't want to offend her.  
Luna smiled. "Good. Check page three. Anyway, I should go. I'm not a Gryffindor," she smiled, and went to sit by her Ravenclaw friends. (Who all seemed to be ignoring her.)  
"What was that about?" asked Hermione from across the table.  
Harry just shrugged. "I honestly have no idea."  
()()()  
Draco sighed loudly, putting his hands in his lap. Fiddling with his fingers, which felt horribly wrong, because Malfoys did not fiddle. Maybe if he tried really hard, he could even squeeze out a few tears… but for the moment, he settled for a trembling, wobbly little voice.  
"It was the Hufflepuffs," he began.  
Dumbledore stared at him. "The… Hufflepuffs?" he repeated.  
Draco resisted the urge to ask him if he was going a bit deaf, and instead nodded silently, eyes fixed on his lap. He let some of his hair fall into his eyes. "It's just embarrassing," he said. "That's why we didn't want to tell you. But, you're right. It doesn't make sense that it would be an accident. I guess we didn't think that through very well."  
That part, at least, was completely true.  
Dumbledore nodded slowly, stroking his beard. He turned to Pomfrey, who had a permanent look of pity on her face. "It does make sense, Poppy. Mr. Macmillan and the rest of the Hufflepuff house have been spreading rumors recently. Rumors about Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Potter."  
Draco flinched. No one noticed, so he flinched again.  
Pomfrey looked at him. "Yes, I'm certain that must be a sore subject for you, Mr. Malfoy. But would these rumors be enough of a reason for these Hufflepuffs to hex the both of you? With Crucio, mind you. I have never known Hufflepuffs to be so violent."  
"Or advanced enough at the Dark Arts to cast an effective Crucio," Dumbledore added.  
"You don't know Ernie," Draco said, grimly.  
"He's not like the others," Pansy added, in a perfectly sad, quiet voice. "He's obsessed with the Dark Arts. He likes to create new Dark spells. Tons of them. He even invented a spell to defeat Veritaserum." Sneaky Pansy. Draco resisted the urge to smile at her.  
Draco took a deep, shaky, breath. "He spreads rumors. Just like the one about me and Ha - Potter."  
That was almost a disaster, but no one seemed to notice his slip.  
"And he's an amazing liar," Pansy finished, in her danger voice. Draco shuddered automatically.  
Dumbledore just looked at them. Draco wished desperately to know what he was thinking. Did he believe them?  
He had to believe them.  
Please, Draco whispered in his mind, to any gods that might be listening. Please let him believe us.  
Dumbledore sighed, slowly. "Then, he will most certainly be punished for his actions. After I am completely certain that it was, in fact, him. And not someone else. You understand, of course?"  
Draco and Pansy nodded. Draco had the unsettling feeling that Dumbledore knew that they were lying, but he tried to ignore it.  
Dumbledore nodded back, adjusting his spectacles. He stood there for an agonizing ten seconds longer than necessary, and then slowly walked away, and slowly closed the door behind him.  
Pomfrey stared at them for a moment, and then followed him.  
Draco and Pansy let out long breaths that they didn't realize they had been holding.  
"Merlin," Pansy said.  
"Suffering Salazar," Draco replied.  
"Giddering gryffins."  
"Lanky leprechauns."  
"Swanky, smirking Slytherins."  
Pansy started laughing, and Draco started laughing too.  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for… Lots of eyeball… ness. I don't know. I guess I was in a weird mood when I wrote that scene. Don't read with your cinnamon toast crunch.  
> Seriously.  
> Also, eavesdropping and Malfoy. The next chapter is one of my favorites, by the way :)  
> Please review!


	9. Eight -

Eight.  
Locito.  
-  
“They’ll be okay,” Hermione said again. “They will. Pomfrey can fix anything.”  
Harry took another bite of his treacle tart. “I know. But I’m still…” he looked her in the eye. “Still worried,” he finished,  
She knew what he meant.  
Hermione put an arm around his shoulder. “Harry, you know I love you, right?”  
Harry nodded.  
“And Anastasia. She loves you.”  
Harry smiled ruefully. “Yeah. She does.”  
“Then you know that you can talk to us if anything’s wrong, right? You’re worried about them. I can tell. But you never say anything.”  
Harry stared at the ceiling. “Yeah. I’m sorry,” he looked at her again. “I love you, Hermione. I really do. And I always will.”  
Hermione smiled and leaned her head on his shoulder. “So do I.”  
()()()  
Poppy opened the door, and Draco and Pansy walked out of the hospital wing.  
Finally. I wasted the whole bloody day in that itchy bed.  
Draco glanced at the clock. It was an hour before dinner..  
“Couldn’t she have let us out after my detention with Potter?” Draco asked with distaste. He didn’t know if the distaste was real, but he tried to inject as much as possible into his voice.  
Pansy smirked. “You know you love it.”  
“No.”  
“Yes.”  
“No.”  
“Yes.”  
Draco rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”  
Pansy laughed, and then, to his surprise, she hugged him. “I was so worried about you. I’m so glad you’re okay.”  
Draco didn’t know how to respond to this sudden show of affection, so he just hugged her back. And hoped to god that no one would walk past and see them.  
Pansy let go, and smiled, and they walked to the Potions classroom. Their footsteps sounded so loud in the empty hallways, and everything seemed to stretch on for miles. Draco sighed. Normally there would have been at least someone. Some lost first year, trying desperately to find the way to their class. Or two students skipping class so that they could snog. But there was no one. The castle was empty, and it was eerie. Like a castle full of ghosts.  
Pansy took his hand. “I know,” she said. She squeezed his hand.  
Thank god for Pansy Parkinson.  
“What are you going to do?” she asked, when they reached the classroom.  
Draco looked in the window, and groaned when he saw that Harry was already there. Draco wasn’t the best at dramatic entrances. He much preferred to be there first. That way, the other person felt like they were intruding on his territory.  
Oh well. At least Harry looked slightly nervous. He was biting his nails.  
“Walk in. Sit down. Clean… wait, no. I think we’re making something,” Draco peered through the window at the ingredients laid out on the table.  
Pansy gave him an annoyed look. “That’s not what I meant. What are you going to do about Potter? Are you going to talk to him? Ignore him? Insult him?”  
Draco shifted uncomfortably. “Do I get a choice?”  
“No,” Pansy said triumphantly. “Because you’re going to talk to him. Or else. And don’t think about lying to me. I’ll know. I always know.”  
Draco rolled his eyes. “Why do I have to talk to him?”  
Pansy smirked. “Because you want desperately want to snog him. And that’s never going to happen unless you at least talk for a few minutes.”  
“What?” Draco cried. He could feel his face going red. “I don’t want to snog Potter!”  
Pansy just raised her eyebrow.  
“Fine,” Draco said with a groan. “I’ll talk to him.”  
Pansy smirked again. “Of course you will. Now, run along to your detention,” she said with a wave of her hand and a swish of her red hair.  
Draco glared at her. She smiled back smugly.  
He opened the door.  
()()()  
Draco and Pansy had been in the hallway for a long time. It made Harry a bit worried. Had something happened? Was Draco alright?  
It’s probably fine. His brain assured him. They’re probably just talking about you.  
Thanks. That really made him feel better.  
Harry realized that he could hear bits and pieces of their conversation through the door. It’s not eavesdropping when they’re talking so loud everyone in the bloody hallway can hear them, his brain assured him.  
“Ignore him? Insult him?”  
“Talk to him. Or else.”  
“Why do I have to…?”  
“Want to snog… never going to… unless you at least talk for a few minutes.”  
Harry tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t help it when he heard Draco yell, “I don’t want to snog Potter!”  
And maybe it was just Harry’s brain, but it sounded like he didn’t mean it.  
Or maybe he did.  
Harry wasn’t sure.  
But just the fact that Draco had said the words snog and Potter in the same sentence made Harry smile at the fat beetle eyeball on the table in front of him.  
Progress.  
Which was a ridiculous thing to think, because Draco had specifically said that he did not want to snog Potter.  
The voice got closer, and Harry knew that Draco was probably about to open the door. “Fine,” he heard Draco say. “I’ll talk to him.”  
Pansy said something he couldn’t hear  
Draco opened the door and walked over to the table with a sulky look on his face. He sat down next to Harry and immediately started to press his finger into one of the beetle eyeballs. When he took his finger out, it made a horrible squelching sound.  
“Ew,” Harry said.  
“Thanks for your brilliant commentary, Potter,” Draco said. Now he was pushing the eyeball back and forth across the table. It left a trail of white goo behind it. Draco drew the word Malfoy in the goo, and smirked.  
Harry was curious now. He hesitantly picked up an eyeball, and let it fall back down with a squish. Draco looked at him with distaste, and lifted his eyeball up until it was level with the top of his hair. When it fell, it splattered all over the table with a satisfying squashing noise. Draco smiled smugly.  
“You know what I wish this was?” Draco said, stabbing the beetle eyeball with a raven feather. “Theodore Nott’s eyeball.”  
Harry shuddered. Then he grabbed a raven feather and stabbed the eyeball, too.  
Draco smirked. He grabbed a handful of ingredients. Dandelion roots. Haliwinkles. Griffin claws.  
When Snape walked in, he was confronted by a nearly perfect replica of Theodore Nott’s rather large nose, complete with pimples and the bump right on the bridge, made entirely out of his potions ingredients. And the two boys, laughing their heads off.  
()()()  
“Four hours?” Draco repeated, mildly outraged.  
Snape just nodded solemnly.  
“But we’ll miss dinner!” Harry cried.  
Draco rolled his eyes. Trust a Gryffindor to always think about his stomach. “I have to study,” he said. Snape was much more likely to care about that, although Draco doubted he was going to give in.  
Snape sneered.  
So no, he was definitely not going to give in.  
“We need one thousand healing potions prepared for upcoming… events,” he said sourly. “You two were going to prepare two cauldrons of potion. Now, you will prepare four. I have provided you with instructions, which you will follow to the letter. When completed, the potion must sit for at least twenty minutes. Finally, you will pour it into bottles. Without spilling any. Then, and only then, you may leave. And, yes, the process will most likely take four hours. Do you understand? Or must I repeat myself for the fifth time?”  
Draco and Harry shook their heads. Snape swept away, and they resigned to the fact that they were going to be stuck in the Potions classroom until curfew. With each other. Oh god, how were they going to get through this without… something happening? Draco didn’t know whether they would be more likely to end up killing each other or shagging each other senseless.  
Too many emotions.  
Maybe he should go back. Back to five minutes. Back to safety. Back to don’t talk to Potter and don’t talk to Gryffindors and even, only talk to Slytherins.  
But Pansy… Pansy would know.  
And that was a real risk.  
Those nails weren’t for decoration. They were for slicing flesh.  
Draco chewed his lip until he realized he was chewing his lip, and stopped immediately. Malfoys don’t chew their lips. He was going crazy. Just make the potion.  
One step at a time.  
“Right, Potter,” Draco said in what he hoped was an obnoxious tone. “Instructions.” He held out his hand, like a proper haughty, aristocratic Pureblood. It was nauseating, he realized.  
Harry snorted. “I thought you knew all this by heart,” but he handed Draco the paper anyway.  
Draco cleared his throat. “Assemble your ingredients. For one full cauldron of healing potions, you will need: sixteen and a half beetle eyeballs.”  
They looked at the pile of broken potions ingredients on the table. A few of the eyeballs were leaking white liquid, some were in pieces, a few were smashed completely.  
“Oh,” Harry said.  
Draco waved his wand once. The eyeballs became whole again (accompanied by horrible squishing noises), the griffin claws ripped free of the table (and ceiling), the dandelion roots formed a neat pile, and the haliwinkles shrunk back to normal size.  
Harry’s eyes were the size of saucers.  
“Cleaning charm,” Draco said. “Makes sense that you’ve never heard of it.”  
Harry looked perfectly confused. “Why?”  
Draco smirked. “No reason.” He waited a few seconds to see if Harry would get it, but he never did, so Draco shrugged and moved on. “Sixteen and a half, Potter. Count out sixteen, and cut one in half.” Harry obliged. He cut the eyeball in half with a spell, but it still sounded disgusting, and squirted juice all over the table. Draco looked at it with distaste. “Thirty-seven dandelion roots. One griffin claw. Twelve haliwinkles.”  
Harry sorted all the ingredients into piles. Then they set to work, cutting up the roots and de-tonguing the haliwinkles and sharpening the griffin claw and drying the beetle eyeballs. It was a tedious process, but didn’t take much brainpower.  
So this was Draco’s chance to talk to Potter.  
“So, Potter,” Draco said, not sure what he was going to say. “Ever shagged anyone?”  
Well fuck. That wasn’t what I wanted to ask at all.  
What was wrong with his mouth? How had it formed those words without Draco even realizing it? Was his body rebelling against him? Trying to ruin his life?  
Draco decided to try to pretend like he didn’t care about the answer. He tried to sneer but it turned into a half-smirk half expression-of-pure-terror.  
Pansy will pay dearly for this.  
Harry was looking at him strangely (as he should), but he was looking at him really strangely. You’re-an-insane-person kind of strange. You-belong-in-St.-Mungo’s kind of strange.  
“Um,” Harry said.  
Draco sighed. “Brilliant commentary, Potter.”  
Thank god for inherited Malfoy acting skills.  
Harry’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. Then he straightened up, and stuck his knife into a beetle eyeball. “Why do you want to know?” he asked.  
Oh no, please don’t go there. Whyyyy did you have to go there?  
Draco smirked. Then he sneered. Then he smiled smugly. Perhaps if he made enough infuriating facial expressions, Harry would forget that he had asked a question.  
No such luck.  
“Why?” Harry repeated. He had a stubborn Gryffindor gleam in his eye, like he wasn’t going to give up until he had a satisfactory answer. That was extremely bad news for Draco, who still hadn’t answered the question. If he didn’t answer soon, Harry would be able to figure the answer out on his own.  
“Just…” Draco tried. “Um… I’m… Just taking a poll, of all the students in Hogwarts… to see… who… has shagged.... someone. Of course. Obviously.”  
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Did you ask Millicent Bulstrode? I always wondered if she and Zabini were an item.” He turned away, pulled his knife back out of the eyeball, and started cutting up dandelion roots again.  
Draco sighed. He had dug his grave, he would have to lie in it. He had come too far to not get his answer.  
It wasn’t that he really cared whether or not Harry had shagged someone. It would just be interesting to know. Information. It wasn’t like Draco’s heart was thumping like mad.  
Or anything.  
Draco raised an eyebrow at Harry. Harry didn’t look at him. Draco sighed. “Well, have you?”  
Harry smirked half-heartedly. “Have you been wondering?”  
Several excruciating seconds passed.  
Then Harry sighed. “Fine. I’ll tell you… if you tell me first.”  
Draco couldn’t believe his luck. It wasn’t that he cared about the answer. He didn’t give a damn if Harry had shagged someone. But Harry was talking to Draco about shagging.  
And that was a whole different haliwinkle skin.  
But Harry was looking at him expectantly, and Draco smiled smugly.  
“Yes, I have,” he said. Easy answer, after all. Everyone knew that.  
Harry groaned. “I haven’t.”  
“You’re a virgin?” Draco asked. He couldn’t believe it. After all these months, Harry had never once shagged Anastasia? She was his girlfriend!  
Wasn’t she?  
Draco tried to think. Well… they had been very hands on last year, and that had been quite disturbing to see. But this year? Draco couldn’t remember seeing Harry snog her, not even once. Sure, a peck on the cheek, but that didn’t count.  
Draco couldn’t hide the smile creeping across his face.  
“Not even Anastasia?” he asked, just to be sure.  
“No,” Harry said. “Not even Stasia.”  
Interesting.  
Draco filed that information away for later use.  
()()()  
A million thoughts were racing around Harry’s head, but a few became prominent.  
Why the hell, Malfoy?  
What the fuck were you thinking.  
This is weird.  
Oh my god I’m mortified.  
Anyway.  
That wasn’t the point. The point was…  
(Please don’t say the word “point.”)  
SHUT UP.  
Harry took a deep, calming breath.  
The point is, Harry lied.  
Liar, liar, pants on fire.  
I hate you.  
I’m only being honest.  
Well stop!  
Why should I?  
Harry shook his head wildly, trying to make the thoughts go away.  
Liar, liar.  
Shut UP!  
Oh, I’m sorry. Was I being too honest for you?  
“Potter,” Draco said. “The potion is ready to be bottled. I think.”  
Harry forced himself back into the real world. He was still mortified, of course, but he had to pay attention. Or else Draco would think he was crazy.  
(He still felt guilty, too. He shouldn’t have lied.)  
Harry wrinkled his nose. The potion smelled like death. It was bubbling and boiling in the cauldron, and little mysterious pieces of something were bobbing on the surface. He could see the fumes rising off of it.  
“Remind me again why healing potion is about to make me throw up?” Harry asked, pinching his nose. The smell was truly disgusting.  
Draco rolled his eyes. “You’ve obviously never smelled magical dung beetle shit.”  
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Why have you smelled magical dung beetle shit?”  
Draco scowled. “Slipped in it when I was ten. It ruined one of my best shirts.”  
The image of Draco Malfoy, who always had impeccable grace when he walked, slipping on a pile of dung beetle droppings made Harry start to laugh out loud.  
Draco started laughing too, after a while. He laughed so hard that he dropped his wand in the potion accidentally, and then Harry was bent over double, cackling.  
He liked this.  
He liked this a lot.  
Just him and Draco, laughing together. He hadn’t expected this, but he liked it.  
()()()  
Hermione drew away from the window when she saw that they weren’t fighting, or tearing each others eyes out. She was surprised to hear that they were laughing. Together. Harry and Malfoy.  
She smiled to herself.  
“What’s going on? Isn’t their detention over?” Anastasia asked. She was sitting on the floor, reading a textbook.  
“I guess not,” Hermione said. But it should be. It had been two hours already.  
Maybe… could it be that they didn’t want to leave? That they liked spending time together so much that they would endure extra detention? Hermione smirked. Oh, they were so obvious, and they didn’t even know it.  
It was adorable.  
Hermione sighed. She had been expecting to be able to walk right in and take Harry back to the common room. Maybe play chess with him. But now she had nothing to do but talk to bloody Anastasia, and she was sick and tired of doing that.  
Maybe…  
No. Hermione wouldn’t cast an eavesdropping charm, of course not. That was… wrong. Wasn’t it?  
Oh, but it couldn’t hurt. Just once. Just for five minutes. Just to know what they were saying, what they were doing, but that was it. She just wanted to know. Hermione loved knowing things.  
So she checked that Anastasia wasn’t watching, held her wand to the door, and whispered, “Locito.”  
A little silvery wire trailed out from the door. Hermione touched it, and voices started to drift into her ears. It was strange. She didn’t have to listen for the voices, they just appeared there. Like she was listening to a radio.  
Harry was struggling to talk, he was laughing so hard. “Oh… my god. Did you… did you just…”  
“Shut up, Potter. Ow!”  
“Don’t touch it! It’s hot!” Harry’s laugh sounded slightly like a cackle now.  
“I know that, you idiot. I was just trying to get the wand out! You could help, you know. Say ‘accio wand’ or something.”  
“Nah, I’d rather watch you.”  
“Of course you would. I’m being serious here, Potter. This is bloody ridiculous.”  
Harry just cackled again.  
Hermione smiled.Well, it seemed like they were getting along. She was sure Malfoy would get his wand out soon, so there was nothing to worry about.  
“What are you doing?” Anastasia asked.  
Hermione gasped and dropped the wand. The little wire disappeared in a burst of golden light. “What?” she asked. “I… I wasn’t doing anything!”  
Hermione had never been a very convincing liar, but she was still surprised when Anastasia said, “Don’t pretend. I know you were listening.”  
Hermione sighed. “Fine. Fine. I just wanted to check and see… if they were… um…”  
Anastasia smiled. “I’m not mad. I wanted to know if I could listen, too.”  
Oh. Hermione hadn’t expected that. She still couldn’t quite believe that Anastasia was doing something besides smiling passively and only speaking when spoken too. And she wanted to eavesdrop on Harry’s conversation? Was this the same Anastasia, or had she been replaced with a whole new person?  
Hermione picked up her wand. “Why?” she asked.  
Anastasia sighed. She folded her arms, and appeared to be thinking hard, which was something Hermione had never seen her do before. She looked at Hermione, and Hermione had an unsettling feeling like she was being measured. Finally, Anastasia said, “Nevermind. I think I might be able to do it myself.”  
She pulled out her wand, and Hermione didn’t have time to stop her before Anastasia had whispered, “Locito,” and the little wire sprang from the door and into her hand.  
()()()  
“You know what?” Draco asked. The potion was boiling, and there was no work to do, so the two boys were sitting on the table and talking. Draco was absentmindedly drying his wand with his sweater, and Harry was chewing on a piece of gum that he had Transfigured. Draco was acutely aware that their hands were only centimeters apart.  
Harry looked up. “What?” He pulled his legs up onto the table and sat cross-legged. His knee accidentally brushed Draco’s, and sent little prickles up his leg. Draco swallowed nervously.  
“I just realized how weird this is,” Draco said with a little laugh. It hadn’t been what he had been expecting to say, but it was true.  
Harry laughed. “What, just two people that society expects to be mortal enemies talking together next to neat little pile of unused, slightly squished, beetle eyeballs? Why would that be weird?”  
“It’s nice though,” Draco said.  
And… that had been the wrong thing to say. Harry stared at him with a strange look on his face, (almost a sad look, Draco thought) and then looked away, a few seconds later than was normal.  
Draco fidgeted with his hands and his tie. He wished he had a piece of gum. He liked to chew when he was feeling anxious.  
“Yeah,” Harry said. “It is.”  
Draco felt his heart doing jumping-jacks in his chest. He shot a quick glance at Harry, but looked away automatically when he saw that Harry was already looking at him. Oh god. What the hell was going on?  
Was he going crazy?  
Or… was Harry really smiling softly to himself, and inching closer, and were his fingers really brushing Draco’s… and did Draco really suck in a breath, and was he really freaking out because he had no idea what to do.  
No one had ever been like this before.  
Harry’s fingers were so close, and so warm, and it reminded Draco of everything that could possibly happen if they got too close.  
No.  
This was wrong.  
The alarm bells rang out in Draco’s head, and he jerked his hand away.  
Harry moved away almost as fast. “Oh… um… sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean…”  
Five minutes.  
Just five minutes.  
Oh, and they were up. They had been up for a long time.  
And this was wrong.  
Draco took a deep breath, and let his mask fall over his face.  
A sneer. A smirk. And Malfoy was there, glaring at Potter. “What the hell, Potter?” Malfoy leered. “Did you just try to hold my hand? Are you a fucking homo or something? Creep.”  
Malfoy jumped down from the table, and didn’t look back at the boy still sitting there..  
“I… I’m sorry…” Malfoy heard Potter say.  
Malfoy didn’t reply, just sneered at Potter and started bottling the second potion. Potter remained frozen for a few moments, and then climbed down from the table and started bottling the potion, too.  
“Dra… I mean, Malfoy…” he said, trailing off. “What… did you just… I mean, a second ago you were… and now…”  
“You’re rambling, Potter,” Malfoy said.  
“No, I’m not. I’m trying to ask you what the hell just happened,” Potter said. As if he thought he was intimidating. As if he thought Malfoy would ever listen to him.  
“What just happened? What just happened, Potter? You really are dense, aren’t you?”  
“What do you…”  
“It was a joke, Potter. And you fell for it, like the idiot you are,” Malfoy laughed. But it wasn’t a nice laugh.  
And Potter was smashed into pieces. Just like the beetle eyeballs. Malfoy could see it on his face. Broken into little bits.  
And it hurt.  
Malfoy felt an ache. An ache right there, right where his heart would be if he had one.  
“Fine,” Harry said. “Fine.”  
His voice broke when he said it.  
“Okay. I’m sorry. Whatever. Fuck you, Malfoy. I was right about you, after all,” Harry said. His eyes (beautiful, green eyes), were dangerous, but also watering. But he was able to pick up his wand and his potions books and walk right out without looking back.  
Malfoy disappeared as soon as he was gone.  
Draco felt himself slump against the table. All his energy had disappeared. All the spite. All the anger.  
Now he just felt empty.  
He heard a dry, painful sob. It was his.  
Of course it was. There was no one else here.  
(Tell me, were those five minutes worth it? Worth all this pain?)  
(No, of course not. Are you crazy?)  
Draco sat on the table and closed his eyes and started to cry.  
()()()  
Harry opened the door, and the little wire fell from the door and into Stasia’s hand. There was no mistaking it. He knew what it was.  
He stared at her for a moment, and then ripped it out of her hand and let it disappear into dust. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing,” he said, in a voice that said he hated her.  
Hermione scrambled to her feet, but Stasia put her hand out to hold her back.  
Anastasia grabbed Harry’s wrist. “No,” she said. “Go back in.”  
Harry looked at her, and his brilliant green eyes were flashing, and he looked angrier than she’d ever seen him before. “Fuck off,” he said. “It’s over.”  
“I know,” she said with a little sad smile. “And I’m sorry for eavesdropping, but it’s been over for a long time. It would have ended regardless.”  
Harry glared at her with such hatred, that she felt her breath drop away. It took all her courage to speak, and when she did her voice was trembling and scared. She had never wanted Harry to hate her like this.  
“But if you listen to anything I ever say, ever again, listen to this. Please, please go back in.”  
“Anastasia,” Hermione warned.  
“Not you,” Harry said. There was such anger in his voice. Stasia shuddered. “Not you. Not ever. Get out.”  
Hermione stepped back. “I’m sorry, okay? We just wanted to know…”  
“That doesn’t give you the right!” Harry yelled. He closed his eyes, and Stasia saw that his hands were clenched into fists. “Hermione, I am very, very pissed off at you. You might want to leave right the fuck now. I’ll deal with you later.”  
Hermione nodded without speaking. She walked away. Anastasia listened to her steps receding, like the ticking of a clock.  
Harry’s eyes met hers. They were green and beautiful, but they were angry. She didn’t like him like this. She wanted her Harry back. But she had a feeling things would never be the same.  
“It’s over,” Harry said, and Stasia felt her heart drop into her stomach.  
No.  
All she was was Harry. All she did was love him.  
She would be an empty shell.  
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, hoarsely. She pushed her glasses up her nose, and Harry smiled ruefully.  
“Too bad,” he whispered back.  
Stasia nodded numbly. Harry went to walk away, but she grabbed his arm again. “Go back in,” she said. Her voice was strong now, because this mattered. “Go right back in. Now.”  
Harry tried to pull away, but she grabbed his arm tighter. “Trust me,” she said.  
“Why should I?” he asked.  
Anastasia smiled. “Because I love you.”  
Oh… she wasn’t stupid.  
She knew he had never loved her. But her love should still count for something, right?  
Harry stared at her. His eyes were cold. But then he nodded, once, and walked past her. Into the classroom. And the door shut behind him.  
Anastasia closed her eyes tightly.  
It’s over.  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please review :)


	10. Nine - To Feel Better

Nine.  
To Feel Better.  
TRIGGER WARNING: this chapter contains mild child abuse.  
()()()  
"Revenge," Nott said. He savored the word, as if it tasted good on his tongue. "Is sweet."  
"Will be," Greengrass corrected him.  
Nott smirked. "As if they have a chance of escaping. You need to have more faith in me, my dear."  
Greengrass smirked (a smirk that matched his perfectly) and then they proceeded to snog violently, with lots and lots of tongue.   
Blaise grimaced.  
Crabbe and Goyle cracked their knuckles (they were always a bit slow on the uptake.)   
"You do that too often," Blaise commented, studying his nails as if they were a Potions textbook. They were a beautiful Slytherin green today.   
They just stared at him. Neither of them knew how to form a complete sentence, after all.  
Finally, Greengrass and Nott disconnected with a horrible sucking sound. Nott tapped her on the nose 'seductively.'   
"There's more where that came from," he said. Greengrass laughed.  
Nott raised his glass of golden champagne that Greengrass had stolen from the kitchens. "To finishing what we've started. To revenge," he said, just before he licked Greengrass's ear.  
"To revenge," Blaise murmured, along with the others.  
They raised their glasses.  
()()()  
Harry was numb.  
Yes. That was all he was. Just ice. He was cold and frozen and numb.  
He heard the door close behind him and leaned back against it and closed his eyes. There were stupid tears trailing down his face, and Malfoy was there… and why the hell had she made him come back? Malfoy was just going to laugh and sneer.  
Because it had all been a joke, after all. Everything had been a fucking joke.  
Harry felt a pain in his chest. An ache. It hurt. Everything hurt, but he wasn't injured. Nothing was wrong with him. Harry drew in a ragged breath, and sank to the floor.  
He didn't care what Malfoy said. Not anymore. He could bloody well laugh if he wanted to. Harry didn't give a damn about him anymore. Harry didn't give a damn about anything.  
He was too numb to care.  
But he opened his eyes anyway, because some part of him couldn't stand the wait. He just wanted Malfoy to laugh at him. Better to get it over with now.  
Harry blinked.  
Malfoy was sitting on the table. His eyes were red and puffy. He had been crying.  
Harry would have tried to deny it, but it was too obvious to deny.  
Oh, and Malfoy was staring at Harry like he was a crumple-horned snorkack.  
Harry leaned his head back against the door with a thud. "This is so fucked up," he said with a bitter laugh. "Everyone I thought I could trust lied to my face. Hermione. Anastasia," Harry looked Malfoy dead in the eyes. "You." Harry stood, and Malfoy backed away automatically. He still hadn't wiped away the tears, and his hair was messy. Harry felt something pull at his gut, but he continued anyway. "One moment you're talking like a normal person, and the next you're…"  
Harry closed his eyes again. His hands were still clenched into fists. His breathing was still fast and weird. His eyes still burned.  
(He had lost everything in five minutes. What do you expect?)  
"And the next, you're yourself again. But here you are, bawling your eyes out. Sort of pathetic, but I'll forgive you if you tell me what the hell is going on?"  
Harry opened his eyes, crossed the room, and slammed his fists down on the table. Malfoy flinched. He was breathing hard, like a mouse running from a big, fat lion.  
"Get down," Harry said. He didn't have time for this. "And say something to defend yourself."  
Malfoy had tears streaming freely from his eyes now. But when Harry looked closer, something wasn't right. His hands were shaking slightly. His eyes weren't focusing. His breaths came out in chokes and hiccups. Harry could see that he was trying desperately to speak, but he couldn't. And his breathing was getting faster and faster, too fast too fast. It was all happening, all over again.  
(Because of him.)  
Harry raised his wand and whispered, "Reficio."  
Draco collapsed into himself. He smothered his face in his hands and took deep, shuddering breaths. His hands were still shaking.  
Harry put his wand down on the table. All his anger had vanished in a split second. It was just replaced by a quiet sadness that covered him like a too-heavy blanket.  
But Harry was a Gryffindor. And even though he was sad and broken, he couldn't just stand here and stare at Draco. He was more broken than Harry was. So Harry climbed up on the table and only hesitated once before putting his arms around Draco's shaking shoulders.  
And it must have been pathetic. The two of them there, on the table, both nearly in tears, arms around each other. But Harry didn't care. He had lost nearly everything. The universe could let him at least have this.  
Of course, he would never have expected this to be Draco Malfoy.  
But then Draco buried his face in Harry's shoulder, and he was so warm and nice and close, that Harry didn't care at all.  
Thank you, Anastasia.  
()()()  
Draco was back in Malfoy Manor.  
"Rule. Malfoys do not 'become attached'. Not to anything, not to anyone.   
"Rule. Malfoys do not have 'friends', they have alliances.   
"Rule. Malfoys do not 'fall in love'. They marry for political gain, and nothing else.   
"Rule. Malfoys do not become friends with filthy Gryffindor half-blood scum. I thought anyone with a shred of competence could have figured that out for themselves, but apparently you don't even have that. You are a failure." Lucius stood from his chair and walked closer to where Draco was sitting. Slowly, so slowly, like a viper circling its prey.  
Eleven-year-old Draco flinched when Lucius tapped his cane against the floor. Lucius smiled like a snake. "Scared, are we? Good. This is what you deserve for disobedience."  
Draco stared at the floor. He knew that his father liked it when he did that. But when he was staring at the floor, he couldn't see the cane swooping down to bite him on the shoulder. Draco jumped, and accidentally let out a little cry of pain.  
Lucius glared at him. "Now, if I were a different man, I would simply use Crucio on you."  
Draco shivered accidentally. He hated Crucio.  
Lucius smirked. "But, I think that you deserve a different sort of punishment." He hit Draco, hard this time, with his cane. Draco jumped, but bit his lip to keep any noise from escaping. "Come with me. I don't want your blood all over my bedroom."  
Draco followed him to the pain.  
Pain he deserved.  
And as he followed, he repeated the rules in his mind.   
He would repeat them for the rest of his life.  
Suddenly the memories tore away from his skin like band-aids. Draco collapsed into himself and quietly cried without any tears. He could feel Harry's eyes on him, and the panic started to rise up in tidal waves again. The horrible waves that always blew him away. Harry was seeing him crying. His cover was blown. Everything was falling apart. Draco buried his face in his hands.  
Harry would think this was hilarious. He would tell his stupid Gryffindor friends. Someone would find out, and his father would know that Draco had been crying.  
Crying was rule one.  
Don't.  
Fourteen-year-old Draco listened to his father's ranting. Saying that he would never amount to anything. That he was a failure. How dare he refuse the Dark Mark.  
His forearm still ached. He knew that he would see fat, purple bruises covering it like tattoos if he dared to look.   
A tear slipped down his cheek.  
Draco wiped it away, hardly daring to breathe. But Lucius had seen.  
He stopped talking. "Was that a tear, Draco? A pathetic, useless, grimy little tear? You are even more of a failure than I thought."  
Draco was a failure.  
He would always be.  
Failure failure failure.  
Draco was ripped out of the memories by the feeling of Harry's arms around him. He froze, not used to touch like this. Touch that was nice, and warm, and safe. Why was Harry doing this? Did it matter?  
He pushed aside the thoughts of this is wrong this is wrong and instead let himself sink into the warmth of Harry's skin.  
He was too broken right now. Couldn't he just be normal? Just for once? Just for a little while, couldn't he have something nice? Something besides anger and sadness and broken, broken pieces…  
Here he felt whole again. Someone was holding him, tightly. Harry wasn't going to drag him down into a basement and beat him until he bled. He was trying to comfort him. Trying to make him feel better.  
Draco had never felt that from anyone but Pansy Parkinson.  
And he still couldn't believe that it was Harry. Harry was the one who was so close, so near that Draco could feel his quiet breaths on his shoulder. It made his heart feel big and fat in his chest, like it was going to explode.  
Draco buried his face in Harry's shoulder. He could feel Harry's breath on his hair. Draco took a deep, deep breath.  
He still didn't feel good. His hands were shaking. His heart was still beating too fast. And besides all that, Draco wasn't sure that he had felt good in a long, long time.  
But he felt better.  
"Thank you," he whispered, and he pulled away from Harry's arms. He didn't want to. But he wasn't used to so much touch. It didn't feel right.  
Harry fidgeted with his hands. "Thank you," he said.  
Draco leaned against Harry, and they just sat there. They didn't ask questions.  
They just tried to feel better.  
()()()  
Nott and Blaise walked by the Potions classroom.  
"This is where they have detention?" Blaise asked, even though he already knew the answer.  
Nott smirked. "Yes. And would you look at that…" he pointed to the window.  
Blaise looked through the window. He fought hard to keep his face a perfect look of indifference, with just a tinge of disgust, instead of whatever it was that he actually felt. Because there were the two stupid boys, cuddling on the table. What the hell were they thinking.  
Nott smiled. "Disturbing, isn't it?"  
"Very," Blaise said with a grimace. "Seems that the rumors were true, as much as Malfoy tried to deny it. They've probably been shagging for months."  
Nott cracked his knuckles. "This will be fun. Second time's the charm, after all.  
Nott grinned and walked away to the Slytherin common room. No doubt to form a plan for the perfect ambush/murder with the other Slytherins. Blaise guessed that it would involve lots of pain and sorrow, since Nott seemed to get off on those things.  
He, however, headed for the Gryffindor common room (the long way round). He needed to meet someone there.  
()()()  
Snape came back in about five minutes later. Harry and Draco jerked away from each other as soon as he opened the door. Harry was sure that he had seen them so close to each other, but he didn't comment. He only nodded once, and waved them towards the door.  
They walked out, and Harry closed the door behind them.  
Then they just looked at each other for a few moments. Neither speaking, because neither knew what to say. What should they do now? Hug? Say something? Just walk away?  
Wordlessly, Draco held out his hand. And the look in his eyes explained everything.  
Harry smiled and took his hand. The warmth electrified his body, just for an instant, and then Draco let go and it slipped away. And Harry felt cold.  
Draco smiled, once. And Harry still hadn't gotten over the fact that Draco's smile could be real and full of life and not just an empty sneer. Harry wished that he would take his mask off more often.  
He wondered why he wore it so much.  
But for now, he just wanted to go home. And sleep. And maybe yell. And maybe cry. (Just a little bit.) He had just broken up with Anastasia, after all. He wanted to be appropriately emotional about it, and pretend like he hadn't just spent ten minutes cuddling with Draco bloody Malfoy.  
Harry smiled. His life just kept getting more and more interesting.  
So Harry said goodbye to Draco and left for the Gryffindor common room.  
()()()  
When Draco turned around, Pansy was waiting for him. He jumped a little, and she smirked.  
"Caught you off guard?" she said. Then she held out her hand.  
"What are you doing?" Draco asked, looking at her hand in mock- distaste.  
"Take my hand, you bloody idiot," Pansy said, and then she lunged forward and grabbed his hand tightly. Instantly, the world turned green. Draco gasped and tried to break away, but Pansy held his hand tighter. "It's a double protection charm, Draco. For two people. It's stronger than a normal one, so it should be able to defend against any spell, even Unforgivables. This way, we won't be hexed in our own bloody common room."  
"Oh," Draco said.  
Pansy nodded smugly. "Yes. And… if I let go now, it should hold…" Pansy let go of Draco's hand. The world was still green. "Good. We just can't get too far away from each other. We'll have to sleep in the same bed, by the way."  
"Ew," Draco said.  
"I know," Pansy said dramatically, with her hand over her forehead. "What a travesty."  
Draco's eyes narrowed. "Are you making fun of me?"  
Pansy rolled her eyes. "Of course. I always make fun of you. Let's go."  
()()()  
When Harry entered the common room, everyone looked up.  
Weasley and Longbottom, who were playing wizard's chess in the corner.  
Dean, who was sitting on a couch and staring at nothing.  
Hermione, who was watching the chess game. Harry felt a pang when he saw the sadness in her eyes, right before she looked away.  
Stasia was sitting by the fireplace next to a plate of treacle tart. She glanced up, and then away immediately when she saw it was him.  
"Thanks," Harry said, loudly so that Hermione and Stasia (and, consequently, everyone) could hear. "For making me go back in." Weasley and Longbottom started whispering to each other. Hermione looked sad. Anastasia stared at the flames.  
Then he walked past all of them to sit by Dean, because he knew how comforting it could be to have someone there beside you. He pulled out his Potions notes to try and study, and Dean smiled at him. It didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was a start.  
It made Harry feel a bit guilty. Here was someone who was obviously suffering, and Harry had been too engrossed in his own problems to care.  
Harry leaned his head on the back of the sofa. He couldn't deal with this right now. He just wanted to sleep.  
But then someone knocked on the door to the common room. The other Gryffindors looked up. The air was filled with unease.  
All the Gryffindors were here. Why would someone be knocking on the door? Thoughts of Death Eaters raced through Harry's mind.  
Longbottom got up to open it. There was a collective gasp when everyone saw Blaise Zabini standing there, with a look of determination in his dark eyes. "I need to speak to the Potter boy," he said.  
Harry stood. "I'm here."  
Zabini motioned for Harry to follow him into the hallway. Harry glanced at Hermione. She shook her head, but Harry followed Zabini anyway.  
"I need the cloak," Zabini said.  
"What?" Harry hadn't expected that.  
Zabini took an impatient breath. "Just give it to me. I'll swear an unbreakable vow. You can cast a truth spell. Whatever. I swear I'll give it back to you in the morning."  
Harry raised his wand warily. "Why do you need it?"  
"To save a life," Zabini said, in his carefully monotone voice. "Go on. Cast it. Veritas, and you wave your wand to the right. Just do it. There's no time."  
"I know how to cast a truth spell," Harry said through gritted teeth. "Who's life? Who are you saving?"  
"Does it really matter to you?" Zabini shot back, anger flashing in his dark eyes.  
Harry nodded. "Yes, if you're trying to save a Death Eater."  
"Fine," Zabini growled. "Cast the spell."  
Harry waved his wand to the right and murmured, "Veritas." He watched Zabini's face carefully, but there was no change when the spell fell over him.  
"I, Blaise Zabini, swear that I will only use Potter's invisibility cloak to save an innocent life," Zabini said, slowly. "That life is not the life of a Death Eater," he said, rolling his eyes. "Or of anyone with malicious intent, as far as I am aware of. I will return the cloak to Potter tomorrow morning, in one piece and with all powers intact. Is that good enough for you, Potter?"  
"Who do you need to save?" Harry repeated. He needed to know. His invisibility cloak was too precious to give up on a whim.  
But… some part of him, some paranoid, scared part of him, was terrified that it might be someone Harry loved, even though there were people dying every day, every hour, every second.  
Zabini narrowed his eyes. "You will know tomorrow."  
He couldn't be lying.  
Harry sighed. He was going to agree, wasn't he? He was such a Gryffindor. "Should I come with you?" he decided to ask. He had defeated Voldemort before, after all. He could help.  
Zabini stared at him. Harry wished he knew what the Slytherin was thinking, but his thoughts were unreadable. "No," he said, after a few moments. "No."  
Harry smiled, once. "Then take it," he said. "Before I change my mind." He pulled the cloak out of his pocket, because he had taken to carrying it around with him. Death Eaters, and all that.  
Zabini took it and walked away.  
()()()  
"Midnight," Nott said, with that eerie smile on his face.  
"Witching hour," Greengrass murmured, from the chair nearest to the fireplace.  
Blaise let the edge of his lip curl up slightly. "That leaves us plenty of time to give them the punishment they deserve," he said in a low, snake-like voice.  
Crabbe and Goyle cracked their knuckles.  
Nott smirked. "I'll bet you ten galleons they come in with a protection shield, like pathetic little rats," he said to Blaise.  
Blaise sneered. "You're on."  
And the door opened.  
()()()  
"The Hufflepuffs?" Snape repeated. "That was the best excuse they had?"  
Minerva scowled at him. "Now, Severus, it could have been true. We don't have all the facts…"  
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Well, you didn't use Veritaserum, did you?"  
Poppy pursed her lips. "No," she said. Should she have used it? At the moment she hadn't thought it was very practical, but perhaps… Perhaps this was more serious than she had thought.  
Severus's eyes practically bulged. "Then they were lying, Pomfrey. Am I the only one with any shred of common sense in this room, Albus?"  
Albus frowned, but his eyes were still sparkling annoyingly. "Severus…" he said, in a very condescending tone that made Poppy wince.  
Severus ran an exasperated hand through his greasy hair. "Merlin's bloody beard," he swore quietly. "I'm stuck with a group of idiots." Then he raised his voice. "The children are in there, Albus. They are with the Slytherins now, as we speak."  
"But they said it was the Hufflepuffs…" Poppy said weakly. "They… how was I to know?"  
Severus turned on her, his black robes falling like bat wings around him. "You should have known. Are you or are you not a member of the staff at this school? It is your job to ensure the welfare of the students. You may not have known, but do you know what you should have done then? You should not have allowed those children to leave your presence until you did know, Pomfrey."   
Minerva raised her voice. "But, Severus, we cannot be sure that it was the Slytherins. Perhaps…"  
Severus was nearly screaming now. "Of course it was the Slytherins!" he shouted. "Do you think I don't know my own house, Minerva? I, of all people, would know that Slytherins value revenge above all other things."  
The room grew quiet.  
Albus fiddled with his wand. Then he said, "Very well, Severus. In the morning, you shall head at once to Slytherin house, extract Mr. Malfoy and Miss Parkinson, and discern the truth. For now, however, I shall be retiring to my bed. I could use a nice, hot glass of pumpkin juice."  
Severus looked like he was about to explode. "No! I must go now, to ensure the safety of my students!"  
Albus yawned. "Honestly, Severus, I am sure it can wait until the morning," he said with a twinkle.   
Poppy glanced at Severus. She felt decidedly uncomfortable. On the one hand, she wasn't sure that she believed Severus entirely. After all, why would they lie? What could they possibly get out of that? On the other, it couldn't hurt to be sure, could it?  
()()()  
The Slytherins were waiting, like hungry snakes, for their prey. Nott and his cronies were in the corner by the fireplace. They watched Pansy and Draco as they walked across the room. Crabbe and Goyle stood aside to let them pass, with matching looks of indifference on their faces. They had mastered that from watching Nott, and it was slightly different from their natural looks of cluelessness.  
Blaise Zabini, who was standing in shadow by the door to the boys' dormitories, reached out a finger. Instantly, a circle of bright green light shone around the shield Pansy had created. Pansy's stomach dropped.  
"That'll be ten galleons," Nott drawled in Zabini's direction. "I told you they were filthy cowards."  
Blaise snapped his fingers and ten galleons floated from his pocket and into Nott's hand. "Not a standard Protection Charm, I see. Very interesting," he said, running a finger down the length of the circular shield. He made a show of licking it.  
Pansy glanced over at Draco. He was pretending to be calm, but she could tell that on the inside he was panicking. She felt the same way. Zabini was going to find a way to destroy the shield, and then they would be hexed into oblivion. She shivered, remembering the Crucio Zabini had cast last time.  
"Fuck off, Zabini," Draco said. There wasn't a trace of fear in his voice. Pansy smirked proudly.  
Draco pushed forward, trying to get past Zabini. He laughed and held them back easily with one hand braced against the shield. There was a warning in his eyes, though, that Pansy couldn't ignore.  
"What do you want, Zabini," she whispered under her breath.  
Zabini laughed without any mirth. It was an eerie, unnatural sound that almost made Pansy shiver.  
"Come with me," Zabini said in a dangerous whisper. He slid his nails along the edge of the shield, and from the inside it sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Pansy couldn't stop herself from shuddering, and Zabini let the edge of his lip curl up slightly. "I'll deal with you in there," he said.  
Nott laughed. He sounded like a maniac.  
They walked into the boys' dormitory, and Zabini locked the door behind them and started walking around the place, checking under beds and under curtains.  
"What the hell is he doing?" Pansy whispered under her breath.  
Draco didn't reply. His eyes were wide and he was breathing fast. Pansy grimaced when she looked at his face. It was paler than snow.  
"Saving you," Zabini said. "They're going to do it at midnight. You'd better be gone by then."  
Pansy's heart skipped a beat. What was going on? What the hell was Zabini doing?  
"Do what?" Draco asked shakily from beside her.  
Zabini laughed again. It sent chills up Pansy's spine. "Kill you, of course," he said. "This isn't a game, Malfoy. You've gone against the Dark Lord by shagging that Potter boy. You must pay the price."  
"I didn't shag him!" Draco protested.  
Blaise stared at the floor, and it seemed that his mask slipped just a little. "That's irrelevant. They think you did. And… now it's over. Dismantle the shield, Parkinson, or they'll be suspicious."  
Pansy raised her wand, but didn't say a word.  
"It'll only hurt for a few hours," Zabini said with a malicious grin. "Then you get out, and don't look back. They'll kill you if you try to leave now. You've got to run when they're not looking. Go to a teacher, and don't fucking lie this time."  
Pansy stared at him for several seconds, trying to think. Her mind was whirling. Why the hell would Zabini help them? He had always been Nott's right hand man. She tried to think what he could possibly get out of this, and came up with nothing.  
What if he was lying to them, and this was just a trick to get her to end the spell so that he could kill them?  
"Prove it," she whispered.  
Zabini looked impatient. "Prove what?"  
Pansy snorted. "That you're telling the truth, Zabini. Why would you help us?"  
Someone knocked on the door, and Zabini sighed. "I was going to give this to you later, but if it will make you believe me, then…" he pulled something out of his pocket. Something silvery.  
"What's that?" Pansy asked.  
"Potter's invisibility cloak," Zabini said. He held it over his arm, and it disappeared.  
Pansy had a million questions going through her head. Harry had an invisibility cloak? He gave it to Zabini?  
"I'll give it to you at midnight. Now, take down the shield," he said. There was another knock and Pansy saw a flash of fear in his eyes.  
But Pansy couldn't shake the thought that this was still a trick.  
The only reason she could come up with for Zabini to help them was that he was doing it out of good will. And that certainly couldn't be right. Only a day ago he had hit Draco with Crucio.  
That reminded her that she could hear Draco's shaky breaths from beside her, raspy and hoarse.  
If it really was her only chance…  
"Fine," she hissed.  
Zabini smirked.  
The shield went down.  
Pansy instantly felt exposed. Panic shot up her spine. If this had all been a trick, they would know in a few seconds. Zabini would kill them.  
But he didn't.  
Zabini moved close so that his lips were so close to her ear that she could feel his breath on her neck. It made her shiver uncontrollably.  
"Tomorrow. Detention. If you're still alive," he murmured.  
Pansy nodded once, and Zabini opened the door.  
()()()  
Blaise stepped back from the door and cast a quick Protection Charm, in case of badly aimed hexes.  
This wasn't going to be pretty.  
It was sad, really. They were just going to die anyway. Nott had said that he would wait until midnight (the more time to torture the two traitors, the better, after all) but the chances of that were slim. He would probably just kill them anyway, too caught up in his own righteous anger to think straight.  
And they would die.  
Blaise would be expelled. His father would kill him. He would never become a Death Eater without the proper schooling, after all. There would be no use for him anymore.  
If Nott hesitated, even for a moment, perhaps Blaise could convince him to let them live for a few more hours. Blaise watched from the shadows, studying Nott's face.  
He was smiling.  
They were doomed.  
"Why are you doing this?" Parkinson asked, in a shaky voice.  
Nott glanced at Blaise, and a wide smile started to spread over his face. "Revenge!" he cried giddily, laughing like a maniac.  
Parkinson started to scream at the top of her lungs when Nott pointed his wand at her. Either she was panicking (which was definitely a possibility) or she was hoping that someone would hear her. Someone happening to walk past the door to the Slytherin common room, or perhaps a teacher or a friend.  
As if anyone who wasn't a Slytherin would walk willingly into the common room.  
Blaise looked closer. Something wasn't right. The Malfoy boy was shaking violently. His face was paper-white, even paler than usual.  
He fell to the ground.  
Parkinson let out a choked sort of sob and knelt down beside him. Nott watched this with a confused look on his face, then shrugged and raised his wand.  
Blaise narrowed his eyes. Despite being a filthy piece of scum, Nott had a firm sense of honor. Would he really hex someone who had no way to defend themselves? Who had seemingly passed out on the floor? Perhaps Blaise could use that to his advantage.  
"Where's the fun in that?" Blaise drawled with a slight sneer pasted on his face. "Cursing them while they're down? Come on, Nott. I thought you wanted to see them scream."  
Nott stopped moving. His wand was frozen in place above the two cowering Slytherins. Then he smirked. "Get up," he said. He kicked Parkinson in the ribs, and Blaise watched her bite her lip hard to stop any noise from escaping.  
Good. She was strong.  
Blaise was against hope. He didn't abide by such nonsense. It was foolish, and it only led to disappointment. But he allowed himself to discern, logically, that perhaps the two could survive long enough to escape.  
He gave them a twenty percent chance.  
Parkinson pulled out her wand, and instantly Nott was yelling, "Expelliarmus!"  
She blocked it with a flick of her wrist. Nott's face twisted with rage. The other Slytherins backed away, not sure if they should cast a spell or not. Nott was unpredictable when he was like this.  
Blaise raised his eyebrows. Interesting. He hadn't expected that kind of magical ability from her. Although, now that he thought about it, she was quite good in Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Perhaps he had misjudged her skill. She had cast the double protection charm too, he realized. That was seventh year level magic.  
Perhaps a thirty-three percent chance.  
Parkinson aimed her wand at Malfoy, to Blaise's surprise, and was able to say, "Reficio," and cast a spell before Crabbe hit her with Expelliarmus and caught the wand in his fat hand. Nott grinned in that special way he had. No emotion. No eyes. It would have been chilling, if Blaise ever got the chills.  
Malfoy was waking up now. He was shaking uncontrollably. Blaise narrowed his eyes. He had thought that Malfoy was stronger than this, but now he seemed hideously weak. Blaise had heard of the rumor that Malfoy had refused the Dark Mark. Before, he had ignored it. Now, he wouldn't be surprised if it were true.  
As if Nott had heard his thoughts, he grabbed Malfoy's forearm in a tight grip. He raised it up, letting Malfoy scramble to his feet and try in vain to wrestle free from his grip. Parkinson kept screaming, and this time Crabbe kicked her. She fell to the ground, winded.  
"Who wants to know if this coward refused the Dark Mark?" Nott leered. He looked at Blaise. "I'll bet you twenty galleons he doesn't have it."  
Blaise sneered at him. "You're on."  
Nott pulled down Malfoy's sleeve. Nothing but bare, white skin. The other Slytherins jeered. Nott let Malfoy fall to the ground. "Coward," he hissed, and spat in his face. And then they all started flinging curses and hexes, and the air was full of beams of green and red and screaming.  
Only the proper procedure for dealing with traitors, Blaise reminded himself, to try to dispel the rage that was currently coursing through his veins. What Nott was doing was disgusting, but emotions wouldn't be helpful right now. Emotions were never helpful. Blaise formed his face into the perfect mask of indifference, and shoved his emotions beneath it.  
When the first attack was over and the Slytherins lowered their wands, Blaise walked over to Nott and handed him twenty galleons. Then, deciding that he had probably spent enough time witnessing the torture to deter any suspicion, Blaise headed for his bed. He wouldn't sleep, but he set a magical alarm anyway.  
For midnight.  
()()()  
Harry didn't sleep.  
All night he was wondering what on earth Zabini could be doing with his invisibility cloak. Whose life was in danger? That thought sent chills up his spine; that someone's life was in jeopardy right this instant, and Harry was just sitting in his bed, staring at the ceiling.  
Sometimes, he hated his saving-people thing. It could be inconvenient.  
So his thoughts would wander, and he would think about Stasia, and feel a pang of sadness everytime he did. He had never loved her, but he would miss their easy friendship. And that would make him think of Hermione, which hurt even more.  
And, sometimes, he would think of Draco.  
He realized that he was looking forward to detention tomorrow. That made him smile. Everything had changed. It was like first year all over again…  
Harry wondered why Draco had been crying. He hoped it wasn't anything serious. He hoped Draco was okay, or, at least, as okay as anyone could be, given the present circumstances. Attacked by his own housemates, having violent panic attacks, and who knew what else. It made Harry sad. No one deserved that. A little while ago, he would have disagreed. He would have said that Draco deserved it.  
He didn't.  
So much had changed.  
Harry sighed. He wanted treacle tart.  
()()()  
Anastasia stared at her hands.  
They were shaking.  
She was shaking.  
Something was wrong. Something, somewhere, was happening. She didn't know how she knew, but she knew it. Something in the back of her brain itched.  
She sighed and stared at the fire. She had been here for hours, staring at the flames next to her little plate of treacle tart that she had made for Harry. She had been too scared to give it to him. He probably hated her. It had been a bad idea.  
But she didn't throw it away, even though she had no appetite. The thought of eating something right now made her want to throw up, but she still left the little plate of treacle tart sitting there on the arm of the couch, smelling like disgusting sweetness. The thought of handing it to Harry, watching him eat it… it made her unnaturally happy. She wanted him to be happy.  
He loved treacle tart.  
But he hated her.  
Maybe she could leave in by his bed. He would wake up, and he would see it, and he would eat it. Wouldn't he? No, Harry was too smart for that. He knew that some people wanted to get rid of him. What better way to do that than to put poison in his favorite food?  
So Anastasia sat next to the fire and the treacle tart, and her mind screamed with an itch that she couldn't scratch. Something was happening.  
Something important. Something she should see. Something she should… something she should be doing, too. Something good. Something right. She had to help. But she didn't know where the thing was, or what it was, or why she should help accomplish it.  
And she was too busy sitting here and pretending like she was going to work up the courage to give the tart to Harry. Even though he was asleep. Even though he would never take it, because he hated her.  
Both of the urges were growing stronger. The itch was spreading. Tingling its way down her arm in pins and needles. Making her hands shake even more.  
Anastasia decided that she couldn't stay here. She left the treacle tart on the arm of the couch and left the common room.  
()()()  
Harry heard footsteps.  
He wasn't sleeping anyway. He might as well see who else was awake. So he pulled on his shoes and crept out of the boys dormitory. It was easy to be stealthy with Weasley's snores drowning out any sounds you could possibly make.  
And then Harry froze.  
It was Anastasia.  
He barely caught a glimpse of her slippers before the door closed behind her, but he would recognize those anywhere. Big and pink and soft, with fat puffballs on the front. Only Stasia or Luna Lovegood would wear something so hideous.  
And Harry knew he shouldn't follow those slippers. Who knew where they were headed? What if Anastasia was meeting… someone? A boy, maybe? Harry bit his lip. For some reason, the thought of Anastasia with someone else made him feel… weird.  
But the chances of that were slim, weren't they? They had broken up only last night. There was no way Anastasia could have already found someone else. Harry felt his curiosity return, as he wondered what else she could possibly be doing.  
He slipped out of the common room, barefoot and breathing as quietly as he could. Instantly, he wished he had his invisibility cloak. It didn't feel right to be visible when he was sneaking around at night. There was nothing to be done for it, though, so he tried to follow as silently as possible.  
He saw the slippers disappear around the end of the long hallway and her shadow walking away around the corner. He smiled at the outline of her curly hair and ran after, on tiptoes, listening for the creaking of a floorboard or the sounds of footsteps. But the castle was quiet. Empty.  
Harry ran to the end of the corridor and peered around the corner. He could see Anastasia, standing at the end of the hallway, looking at the little signs pasted on the walls. They were put there to help the first years find their way. Anastasia must be going somewhere she hadn't been much before. Harry racked his brain, trying to conjure up a map of Hogwarts in his mind. He had forgotten the marauder's map, too, in his haste. But after looking at it so often, he thought he knew the layout of the castle pretty well.  
To the right was the great hall, the hospital wing, and the staircase down the kitchens. To the left was the strangely dark hallway that led to the dungeons.  
Anastasia turned left.  
Harry paused for a moment. Did he really want to follow her down there? Sure, his curiosity was eating him alive… but he didn't really want to spend his night snooping around the dungeons. They were cold. And gross. And dark. And filled with Slytherins. And… and Draco was a Slytherin. And… maybe Harry would see…  
Ugh. He was pathetic. Why couldn't he stop thinking about Draco, even for a second? He was… like a love-sick puppy.  
Harry instantly tried to forget that he had used that particular adjective. And then he shook the thoughts of Draco out of his mind. He had to focus on being quiet, and following Anastasia.  
Suddenly, the most horrible thought invaded his mind. What if… Anastasia and Draco…  
But that was stupid, and made no sense whatsoever. Right? That out of all the boys in Slytherin, she would pick him? It was crazy, right? It wasn't as if… well, Draco was good-looking, no, he was handsome. It wasn't a stretch to think that most girls were attracted to him, including Stasia. But why on earth would he be interested in her? Harry couldn't think of a reason why. Stasia didn't seem like his type.  
No, of course she wasn't. Harry was being an idiot. Stasia was quiet, and a Gryffindor, and she had been Harry's bloody girlfriend. Of course Draco wouldn't be interested in her. In fact, he was probably dating Pansy.  
Yes. Probably.  
But Harry couldn't deny the weird feeling in his stomach when he thought of Draco dating Pansy.  
You really are a love-sick puppy.  
Harry pushed the annoying voice away and focused on following Stasia. She was definitely heading to the Slytherin common room, but now she was walking faster, almost running. Harry had to try hard to keep up with her, because she kept disappearing down corridors he hadn't known existed. Shortcuts he had never seen before. He wondered how she knew about those obscure shortcuts when she had had to read the signs pasted in the hallway.  
Finally, they reached the door to the common room. Harry hid behind a corner and watched. If he strained his ears, he thought he heard voices. Shouting.  
He checked the clock. It was nearly midnight.  
Now they were definitely shouting. Harry thought he could hear curses being thrown. When he heard a distinct, "Crucio!" from behind the door, he threw caution to the wind and stepped out from the corner. Who knew what was going on in there? That was much more important than making sure that Stasia didn't see him.  
She turned to him with wide eyes. "H… Harry," she said, sounding guilty for some reason. "I… was just… well, actually… I don't really know what I was…" she put an arm on the wall, as if she was stabilizing herself. "I'm sorry," she whispered.  
Harry ignored her. He ran to the door and put his ear to it.  
"Godammit! Where are they?"  
"Crabbe! Get them!"  
There was a crash, and Harry thought he heard someone fall to the ground.  
This was too much. He had to open the door. Harry suddenly remembered that Draco and Pansy had been hospitalized only days before because of their housemates, and a wave of panic swept over him, leaving his hands trembling as he knocked on the door. Loudly.  
The voices stopped.  
Harry took out his wand. His fingers were trembling, but he was able to whisper, "Locito," and watch as the little wire grew out of the door and laced around his fingers. Anastasia watched him with wide eyes.  
"Who the hell was that," he heard Nott say.  
"Goyle, the traitors aren't in the curtains. Idiot," that was Blaise. Harry felt the panic tighten its grip around his stomach. "Should I take a look?"  
There was no reply, but suddenly Harry could hear footsteps.  
"Get help," Harry mouthed to Anastasia. She nodded once and ran off, her footsteps quiet on the carpet.  
There was the sound of the door unlocking, and then Blaise Zabini was standing there.  
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Zabini put his hand over his lips, and whispered, "Shh. They're here."  
Zabini stepped aside. Harry could see that something had knocked his arm, and then Harry felt the swish of the invisibility cloak against his skin.  
Oh.  
Zabini smiled briefly, winked, and disappeared into the room. "It's Potter," Harry heard him hiss. There was a collective gasp. "He's sending for a teacher."  
Harry got the message, and smiled because Anastasia was already on her way. The invisibility cloak swished against his leg again. "Go," Harry whispered. "The password is phoenix feather."  
"I can't." It was Pansy, and her voice was high-pitched and full of tears and panic. "I can't!" she said again, louder this time.  
"Shh," Harry warned. "What do you mean, you can't? Go! You have to get out of here…"  
Pansy's voice got shriller and shriller. "I… it's Draco. He's not… moving. And I can't carry him. I… I'm sorry. He's on the floor, and I can't pick him up."  
Harry cursed under his breath. If he left now, the Slytherins could get away. But Draco… he just hoped that Stasia would come back with help soon.  
"Okay," he said. He checked that no one was watching and pulled the invisibility cloak off so that he could see Draco to pick him up. He winced when he saw Pansy. She had angry, red scratches on her arms. One side of her neck had large, oozing boils on it. Her lips were bitten until they bled. But that was nothing compared to Draco…  
Harry's heart lurched. Draco was pale, and he looked sick. He had bruises coloring his face and his arms. His wrist was twisted in the wrong direction. Harry froze when he realized that he wasn't breathing right. It was hoarse and too fast and…  
"Reficio," Harry whispered, pointing his wand at Draco.  
Draco gave a huge, hoarse, choking breath that sounded almost like a sob. He seemed better for a moment, but then he started hyperventilating again. "Reficio!" Harry said again, realizing that his eyes were watering painfully. Draco still didn't wake up.  
"Come on!" Pansy cried. The panic was evident in her voice.  
Harry pulled Draco into his arms. He was shaking, but he seemed to calm when Harry touched him. Harry blinked to keep the tears from escaping. Draco was too light.  
What had they done to him?  
()()()  
Get help. Get help. Get help.  
It was easier when she repeated it.  
Get help.  
Anastasia ran down the corridors. Right, left, right, left. She didn't know the way to Snape's quarters, but she would probably find it eventually. Especially if she kept going right, left, right, left. She would have to find someone if she kept doing that.  
The lights kept on getting dimmer. It was like she was walking into a huge cave. Anastasia didn't like bats. Maybe she should turn around...  
She caught a glimpse of Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris. She screamed when she saw its eyes, like flashlights. She didn't want to get into trouble! She darted around a corner and started walking back to where she had been.  
Wait. Wasn't she supposed to get help?  
Get help. Get help. Get help.  
Anastasia turned around again, even though she really wanted to go back. She wanted to go back to the common room and sleep. And eat her treacle tart. Harry liked treacle tart.  
Harry! Harry was back there! She had to go help him… Anastasia turned to go back.  
Get help.  
Anastasia turned around again. Oh, right. He had told her to get help. To get… Snape. He could help.  
But then that itch was in her mind again. It had been for a while, she realized. She just hadn't felt it. But now she did. It hurt. It wanted her to go back. She needed to scratch it.  
Anastasia turned around. Mrs. Norris meowed at her, but she ignored it and walked past.  
Wait… what about Harry? Didn't she need to help him? Hadn't he… hadn't he told her to do something?  
Get help. Get help. Get help.  
It hurt now. Anastasia knew that she was supposed to turn around. And she wanted to. But she had to help Harry. She had to. Anastasia staggered backwards, feeling dizzy again. She leaned against the wall to steady herself. The world was spinning. Round and round and round.  
Why was she here?  
Anastasia didn't like bats. But she did like treacle tart. Should she go back? She should go back. She should give some tart to Harry.  
The cat meowed.  
Right. Left. Right. Left.  
Anastasia turned around, but now everything looked different. Where was she? She couldn't see any signs anymore. She couldn't see anything, actually, because it was all spinning round and round and round and… and right and left and…  
Anastasia spun in circles. Like a ballerina.  
One of her slippers fell off.  
She didn't… like bats.  
It itched. It hurt.  
GO BACK GO BACK GO BACK.  
Anastasia whimpered as she fell to the floor.  
Why was she here? She couldn't… remember. Wasn't she supposed to go somewhere? Oh, right. She was supposed to go back and have treacle tart… and give it to Harry… oh, and GO BACK GO BACK GO…  
Someone was screaming in her ear, and Anastasia screamed along with them.  
The lights went out.  
And Anastasia passed out on the floor.  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: three hours in hell, indecision, and Locito.  
> Please review!


	11. 10 -

Ten.  
Useless.  
()()()  
Theodore Nott knew that this was the reason he was alive.  
Serving out the Dark Lord's justice was sweet. It tasted like salt and spice on his tongue. It made his head spin, and it made him see beautiful colors. Red and green and orange, all flying through the air like ribbons. Nott laughed. Yes, this was his calling. This was what he was meant to do.  
The traitors cowered before the rainbow of flying hexes, curses, punches. They were weak, and he was strong. They were wrong, and he was perfectly right. They were screaming, and he was laughing.   
Zabini walked past him. Nott didn't care. He didn't see. He didn't hear. There was nothing but his wand and the power coursing through his veins. Was this was the Dark Lord felt like?  
()()()  
Severus was pacing. Back and forth. Left and right.  
He had been doing this for an hour, and his feet hurt, but he still kept pacing. Anything to dispel the butterflies gnawing at his stomach, eating him alive. He accidentally stepped on the end of his long black robes, so he took it off in annoyance, threw it on the floor, and kept pacing. Back and forth across the floor of his dismal, dark, cave of a quarters.  
The clock ticked.  
And Severus knew that he should just go and see if they were all right. It couldn't hurt to make sure. Although, when, inevitably, it turned out that nothing was wrong, Albus and the others would never let him live it down. And he would have to come up with some sort of believable excuse to the Slytherins as to why he was entering their common room after midnight. And at the moment, in his groggy, tired state, Severus couldn't think of anything. He couldn't very well tell them that he was concerned they were going to kill Malfoy and Parkinson. They would just explain about the rumors, and Severus was supposed to be a Death Eater, so those rumors should be a good enough reason for them to die. Blood purity and all that.  
What a load of rubbish.  
So Severus continued to pace. Which was more important? The safety of his students, or ensuring that his position as a spy was safe?  
Of course, there was a chance that nothing was wrong…  
But they had obviously lied. The Hufflepuffs. Severus had expected a better excuse from the two of them. It was ridiculous.  
And why would they lie unless they had a reason? Unless it was the Slytherins? It had to be.  
Severus paced faster.  
The clock ticked.  
He should just go and look…  
But they would know. They might even expect him to join in, to aid them in murdering two innocent children… these were Slytherins, after all. Severus knew his house. He knew what they would expect from him.  
This was hopeless.  
He felt useless. He hated to feel useless.  
Severus paced.  
The clock ticked.  
Someone screamed.  
Instantly, Severus was out the door and running down the dark corridor. He could hardly see his own feet, but there was no time to cast lumos. The only thought running through his mind was Oh god I was right and now they're dying.  
Severus caught a glimpse of the flashlight eyes of Mrs. Norris, and they illuminated the hallway with a sickly yellow light. He was able to see something at the end of the hallway… Something small, something slumped on the floor…  
Severus ran to the end of the hallway. He kneeled next to the girl on the floor. Her robes were sprawled around her, and her wild brown hair was going in all sorts of crazy directions, and it was nearly too dark to see, but Severus was still able to recognize Anastasia Plum by the eerie light of Mrs. Norris's eyes.  
That wasn't what he had expected. But just because she seemed relatively fine and in good health (just sleeping) didn't mean that everyone else was.  
Severus straightened up. This could very well be connected to other events in the castle. Malfoy and Parkinson could be in grave danger.  
He impatiently whispered, "Apparas Discendo," thought very hard about the disgusting Gryffindor common room, and snapped his fingers. The girl disappeared. She would wake up in the morning on a hideous couch next to the fire, not knowing how she had got there.  
Severus went to straighten his robes and realized that he wasn't wearing them. He scowled at nothing in particular. He felt much less imposing without his massive black robes on, but there was no time to get them.  
He had to hurry.  
Severus swept down hallway after hallway until he came to the door of the Slytherin common room. He stood in front of it, trying hard to gather his courage and wits around him like the folds of his black cloak. This wasn't just a professor checking on his students, oh no. They were fighting a war, after all. Nothing was so simple anymore.  
Severus nearly opened the door, but then stopped to cast Locito. It was better to be careful, after all.  
He didn't hear anything.  
But he did hear a window opening from upstairs. Severus darted out of sight, surprised that he hadn't been spotted. Then he realized that he was wearing all black in a dark hallway. He pulled the wire off of the door and held it out towards the noise.  
"Get up, you great oaf!" That was distinctly Theodore Nott's voice. Severus heard a window being opened wider, and then the sound of someone crashing to the floor.  
"Sorry," muttered Vincent Crabbe.  
Someone heaved an exasperated sigh. "Fine," said Nott. "Goyle. You go first."  
"Why do I have to go first?" Goyle whined.  
"Because you're expendable," Nott snapped. "Now get your fat ass out that window."  
Severus raised an eyebrow. Climbing out the window? Why would they be doing that?  
Goyle seemed to hear his thoughts. "I still don't know why we have to do this…" he whimpered.  
Severus heard Blaise Zabini's chilling, monotone voice. "Because we let the traitors escape, fool. They'll go crying to a teacher and we'll get locked up unless we leave now. And we can't just waltz out the door. There are Aurors. Now climb out the window. We should reach Malfoy Manor in a few hours if we fly."  
Oh. So Severus had been right.  
And he couldn't very well go stop them. He was supposed to be a Death Eater. He should want them to get away. So either he had to run and get Minerva or Albus (who wouldn't believe him) so that they could stop the Slytherins from getting away, or stay here and listen to them escape.  
Or perhaps he should go and make sure that Malfoy and Parkinson were still alive…  
Severus rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was too tired for this.  
He ran his hands through his greasy hair. He couldn't even send a Patronus to Albus because they would see. He was virtually useless  
Severus clenched his fists. Useless was not something he liked to be. He had become a spy for Dumbledore so that he could do something. He taught Potions so that he could help them learn. He stayed at Hogwarts so that he could protect them.  
He was a professor at Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry. His first priority should be his students. And just on the floor above him was a group of students - in his own house - who were going to climb out a window, run to the Dark Lord, and get themselves killed, because it was all they knew.  
Severus chewed his lip (which was something he never allowed himself to do). What if they got lost on the way to the Manor? Or were shot down by Aurors?  
He started pacing again.  
They were only children. Brainwashed by their parents. It wasn't their fault. They deserved more than this.  
"You all right?" he heard Zabini shout out the window.  
There was a pause, and then there was a faint cry of, "Yeah!" from outside. Severus winced.  
"Why can't we just use magic?" Crabbe whined.  
Nott snarled at him. "Do you want Filch's cat to see us?"  
"Oh. Sorry."  
"Stop complaining and get your fat ass down there!"  
Severus was frozen in indecision. He could go and get Dumbledore, or he could stay here.  
If he went to get Albus, there was no chance they would return in time to catch them. Apparition was not possible within the castle. He would have to take a longer route so that they wouldn't see, climb up several flights of stairs and Albus's ridiculous rotating staircase, and then hope to Merlin that he believed him.  
He probably wouldn't.  
Lately, Albus had seemed to be losing his wits. It was this godforsaken war. A war that could make children sneak out of windows in the dead of night. A war that made housemates turn on each other.  
That thought caused an extra burst of panic. Where were Malfoy and Parkinson? But he knew that even if he tried to look for them, there was no way he would ever find them in this ridiculously huge castle...  
Severus tried to retain some of his wits. He couldn't be panicking right now. He had to do something.  
But he couldn't.  
He was useless.  
So Severus stood shadowed in the dark hallway like a bat in its cave, silently listening as they climbed out the window one by one until there were none left.  
He walked up the stairs, and looked out at the little boys running across the grounds to the broom shed. He watched as they flew away into the night.  
Severus closed the window.  
()()()  
Draco was falling down a dark, dark tunnel.  
He was going to die.  
And his heart was racing and his breath was beating and his eyes weren't seeing and his feet weren't working. Everything was running. Everything was flying. Everything was getting away, except for Draco, because he was falling and something was stuck in his throat and now he was choking and he was panicking and he couldn't see and no one could help him.  
It was warm.  
Draco choked on the air around him. Something was stuck in his throat. Something was stuck in his throat. Something was warm. Goosebumps. He was falling sideways. The world was spinning.  
Dizzy.  
He was moving.  
He was dying.  
It was warm.  
He was choking.  
Someone was… holding him? It was warm.  
He was falling, falling, falling sideways.  
People don't fall sideways.  
So Draco opened his eyes. There was no tunnel. There was just a hallway.  
But that didn't really matter, because Draco couldn't breathe. And… the hallway was getting smaller. It was rocking back and forth. He was going to fall and die and be squished like a little bug, but he couldn't talk or breathe or anything. He couldn't do anything but die.  
Dimly, he heard someone whisper, "Reficio." Draco felt the rocking stop. He was on the ground. His body was going out of control, but suddenly it all stopped. He could breathe. He could move. He could talk.  
"Jesus fucking Christ," he said.  
Someone laughed. It was Harry. Was Harry… had Harry been carrying him? Why would he…  
Oh, right. The Slytherins. And the hexes, and the Crucio, and the… the panic, and the horrible, horrible feeling of needing to run but not being able to move…  
Draco closed his eyes tight.  
Three hours. Three hours in hell.  
He tried not to remember, and instead opened his eyes and focused on Harry's face. He had a pretty face. He had a great face. Draco liked his eyes and his hair and his little smattering of freckles on his nose that Draco had never noticed before now, but they were really cute. He liked the way that Harry was pretending to smile to make Draco feel better. He liked the way that Harry was letting Draco's head lean on his knee. He liked the way that Harry's hand was holding his, and how warm it was.  
Draco racked his brain for something witty and slightly cutting to say, couldn't think of anything, so instead just sighed in contentment and closed his eyes.  
He could feel Harry picking him up again, and smiled at the ceiling. This was wonderful. This was perfect. This was almost worth three hours in hell.  
He felt himself being lowered onto a couch. He heard Harry murmur a silencing spell, and then Draco fell asleep.  
He had great dreams.  
()()()  
Harry felt Pansy's hand on his shoulder. He smiled at her for just a moment, then sighed. "I'm sorry but… I don't think it's safe for either of you to try and get to the hospital wing with murderous Slytherins wandering around the place and…"  
Pansy rolled her eyes. "I'll be fine, Potter. I know how to cast a healing charm. It's just…" she sighed. "Take care of him, okay?"  
Harry looked at Draco, peacefully asleep on the couch next to the fire. He felt something, something deep and strange in his heart. It was overwhelming. "I will," he said. He meant it.  
Pansy nodded. She took a deep breath. "Do you know any healing spells? I don't have a wand anymore and I don't want to try it with yours."  
"They took your wand?" Harry asked. A little bit of rage made his hands shake slightly.  
Pansy nodded. "Draco's too. It'll be fine… I think. I'm sure we can get new ones. Or someone will catch them, and we'll get them back. Anyway that's not important right now. Do you know any?"  
Harry took a deep breath to get rid of the anger that was going to his head. Anger wouldn't help anyone. "No," he admitted. "But I'm sure Hermione does…" he looked around the room for anything that could help them, and that's when he saw Anastasia asleep on the couch.  
The rage was back in an instant. Harry tried desperately to stop himself from marching over there and slapping her in the face… and failed.  
"Ow!" she cried, sitting up and rubbing her face. "What the…" she reached for her glasses and put them on. Her mouth dropped open when she saw it was him.  
Harry glared at her. The light from the fire made him look especially menacing, but the fire in his eyes must have helped with that too. Harry could see the fear on her face.  
"What?" she asked, looking around. "How did I… how did I get here?"  
Harry didn't have time for this. She truly was a horrible liar, but the fact that she even trying to deny it made him even angrier, somehow. "Oh, I don't know," he said. "Maybe you didn't get help like I said, and ran up here instead with your little rat tail between your legs?"  
Pansy tapped him on the shoulder. "Harry, we really need to…"  
Harry whirled around. His rage seemed to be deciding everything for him, but he didn't care. "No, Pansy. Just shut up for a few minutes, would you? Thanks," he spun back around, ignoring the look on Pansy's face. "Do you have any idea what you've done? You were supposed to get a teacher. You failed. Now they're going to get away, and…"  
Pansy walked in front of Anastasia and slapped Harry in the face. "Harry!" she yelled. "Harry, for god's sake, shut the fuck up!"  
Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Pansy grabbed him by the shoulders. "Harry," she said in a low, threatening voice. "Get Hermione Granger right the hell now. Make her do a healing spell on Draco. And while you're at it, make her do one on me, too. And don't remember that there is a group of bloodthirsty Slytherins roaming around the castle. There are bigger things at stake than yelling at her."  
Anastasia sat up. "Want some treacle tart?" she asked.  
Pansy stepped in front of Harry, who was aiming his wand right at Anastasia's nose. "Harry," she growled. "I'll deal with her."  
Harry took several deep, calming breaths. His hands were still shaking with fury, but he nodded anyway.  
Right. Get Hermione. Get Hermione…  
Hermione glared at him. She was standing on the bottom steps to the girls dormitory, with pink slippers and pajamas on. Her bushy hair was wild and tangled, and her eyes were slightly bloodshot. "Why the hell are you screaming at one in the morning," she hissed. Then her eyes widened. "And why is Pansy here? And why is Malfoy on the couch?"  
"Um," Harry said.  
Hermione rushed forward. Pansy said something to her, and then Hermione was standing over Draco and murmuring a healing spell under her breath. Harry saw dull pink lights flashing out of her wand and hovering over Draco like butterflies.  
Well, that had been easy.  
Harry started walking towards the door, thinking that maybe he could go and try to find the other Slytherins, but Pansy glared at him before he could take two steps. "Don't you dare go anywhere, Potter," she said, snapping her fingers and pointing at a fluffy armchair by the fire. "Sit," she ordered.  
Harry grumbled, but sat.  
This was turning out to be a very long night.  
()()()  
Severus knocked twice.  
The sound echoed a little. It was a bit unsettling. It sounded like someone was knocking on the back of Severus's skull.  
The door remained closed.  
Severus shifted his weight from foot to foot uneasily, checking the time. The clock ticked. 1:11 A.M. Severus yawned accidentally. Luckily, no one was around to see. He would have been mortified.  
The door was still closed.  
Severus sighed and knocked twice, again.  
Albus was a deep sleeper. This was probably a useless mission. He should have gone to Minerva instead, but her quarters were on the other side of the castle.  
Oh god. Could he have reached Minerva in time?  
Severus tried to reassure himself that no, her quarters were too far away. But perhaps he could have cast a patronus… maybe it could have gone out the window and flown up? That was crazy, the Slytherins would obviously have seen it, but Severus still felt a little pang of guilt in his chest. Now that he thought of it, there were probably hundreds of things he could have done…  
He folded his black robes around himself. That always made him feel better. More imposing. More likely to scare little first years into tears.  
Severus sighed and knocked again.  
Jesus. Why didn't Albus have a doorbell? Or perhaps a way for his fancy little phoenix bird to warn him if someone was knocking on his bloody door? It was just a little bit important. Something that the headmaster of the bloody school should probably know.  
Not that he would believe Severus. Or care. Or listen, for that matter.  
Severus tried to push away his growing dislike for Albus. Like it or not, he was the headmaster. Severus's first duty was to warn him.  
Technically, your first duty should have been to stop those Slytherins from climbing out the window.  
Shut up.  
Severus knocked again. He heard the phoenix squawk pitifully from within Dumbledore's office. He had probably been reborn only a few hours ago. His cry was probably not loud enough for Albus to hear it.  
Severus groaned and kicked the wall.  
He could always just destroy the door. That was tempting. Severus licked his lips, considering it. He would definitely enjoy breaking down Albus's door. It had a griffin on it, and Severus despised griffins. Severus despised Albus, too.  
But no. He should just go and find Minerva. So with one last bitter look at the smirking griffin, Severus turned away and walked back down the ridiculous spiraling staircase.  
()()()  
"What!" Minerva cried. She dropped the glass of water she was holding. "What do you mean, the Slytherins attacked Malfoy and Parkinson?"  
Severus rolled his eyes. "Perhaps, Minerva, I meant that the Slytherins attacked Malfoy and Parkinson. And neither parties are… anywhere to be found. We should assemble a team to search for the victims at once."  
Minerva clutched her hideous plaid robes to her chest. "Well… this is all a bit… startling. Severus, I… have you told Albus?"  
Severus tapped his foot impatiently. "I tried. Now, can we please go find them? It's all a bit bloody important, you know."  
Minerva just gripped her robes tighter.  
"Fine," Severus said with an exasperated sigh. "You. Go fetch Poppy. And while you're at it, the other professors as well. Malfoy and Parkinson must be found."  
"What about… about their attackers, Severus? Where are they?"  
Severus paused. Well, he had dug his grave. Now he would have to lie in it. "They escaped through a window. Stole some brooms. And… flew away."  
Minerva looked horrified. "Severus, how…"  
"There's no time!" Severus hissed. God, this woman was slow. "We have to find Malfoy and Parkinson, and you have to wake up the other professors and Poppy!"  
He whirled out of her office without waiting for her to agree.  
()()()  
Poppy knocked on the door to the Gryffindor common room, fifteen minutes later.  
There was a long silence, filled with a lot of whispering. Finally, someone yelled at the door, "Who is it?"  
She recognized Harry Potter's voice, and smiled in relief. There were most likely no Slytherins in there, but she still had to check. "Just Madam Pomfrey," she called back. "Please let me in. We're doing a search of the castle for some missing students."  
She heard some excited chatter from behind the door. At one point, she distinctly heard Ron Weasley yell at the top of his lungs, "But what if she's polyjuiced!" Before Hermione Granger shushed him loudly.  
Poppy pursed her lips. What was going on here? Why were they worrying about polyjuice?  
She heard Hermione's voice. "Madam Pomfrey? Is that you?"  
"Yes, dear," Poppy said. "Please, I need to come in."  
There was some whispering. Then Hermione said, "What is the spell that can help people who are having panic attacks?"  
What? Why were they asking her this? If someone needed help, why didn't they just let her in? "Darling, is something the matter?" Poppy asked.  
Hermione didn't reply for a while, but then she said, "I'm sorry, but I need you to tell us. Just say the name of the spell."  
Poppy sighed. "Reficio, of course," she said.  
The door opened. Poppy stood there for a moment, feeling distinctly overwhelmed when she saw all of their worried faces. Nearly all of Gryffindor house must be gathered here in the common room. "Why are you all awake?" she asked. Something felt off about this.  
Hermione grabbed her wrist and led her over to the circle of couches by the fire. Poppy saw Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and a girl she thought was named Ana all sitting on them.  
"Pomfrey!" someone said, with a sigh of relief.  
Poppy looked and nearly fainted. It was Pansy Parkinson. "Oh, thank god!" she cried. She waved her wand and sent a silvery rabbit out of the common room, glowing with a message for Albus.  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: cuteness, scarves, the DADA tournament, and badly described treacle tart.  
> Thanks for reading! If you liked it, please review or even recommend to a friend, if you think that they will like it as well. Your support is sooo appreciated and I love you all very much.


	12. Eleven - Treacle Tart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAIT! Don't read anything yet!  
> If you were reading before January 3 2019, then this is not the right chapter for you! The previous chapter is actually the most recent chapter, and this was posted afterward. This is because I haven't posted on this site in a long time, and while I was super busy NOT posting, I've done a lot of revising to this story, because I was still posting on FF.Net. So I combined some chapters.  
> And another note - I've changed a lot about the first five chapters. There's a slightly important spoiler, which I will put at the end of this chapter. That way, if you want to, you can go back and read those first, without it being ruined for you. I think they are a LOT better, in nearly every way. It won't be like you're just reading the same thing again, because so much has changed. But if you don't want to read those now, I'll put the little spoiler at the end of this chapter.  
> Anyway. Enjoy reading the previous chapter, and then you can read this one... and I'm sorry for the confusion, lol

Eleven.  
Treacle Tart.  
Happy chapter! This one should be super cute, and much needed after the last few chapters. I hope you like it! :)  
Just a heads up - I've never had treacle tart. I literally had to google "what does treacle tart taste like." So, don't expect any amazing descriptions of whatever the hell it is.  
Thanks to Silver Sailor Ladybug for betaing!  
()()()  
"I'm going to go visit Draco," Harry said suddenly, getting up from the couch. No one answered him. The only other people in the common room were Dean, Weasley, and Hermione. Dean didn't speak anymore. Weasley hated Harry's guts. And Hermione… Hermione didn't know what she was anymore.  
But then Harry looked at her, and bit his lip, and asked, "Should I?"  
Hermione smiled because he was talking to her. This didn't mean they were friends again, but it was a good start. "Yes," she said. "You should."  
He should. Because Draco was probably alone, and she knew that they both liked each other, and they could make each other feel better. Yes. Harry should go visit Draco.  
Harry stared at her for a long moment. Then he nodded, slowly, and said, "Okay," and stood up and walked to the door. But he turned back for a second and looked at her again, like he was studying her. It was a strange feeling. He stared at the floor by her feet and said, "Thanks, Hermione."  
"You're welcome," Hermione whispered.  
She wasn't sure if he had even heard her, but it didn't matter because he was already gone.  
()()()  
The hospital wing was just as bland and boring as always. Draco was alone this time, because Pansy had been let out after only three hours. He would have to stay the night.  
He sighed. He had been staring at the same blank, white wall for at least ten minutes. He had his spellbooks, but he couldn't bring himself to study. The events of last night kept flashing through his mind like a demented muggle TV. Playing the same scene over and over. Watching the hexes fly. Hearing his own screams…  
Draco shut his eyes. Rocked back and forth. Took a bite of chocolate, which was supposed to help but really, really didn't.  
He thought back to what Pansy had told him, when she was trying desperately to reassure him and he would do nothing but cry and freak out and be horrendously pathetic.  
First, he would tell Dumbledore or another slightly competent adult about his father. He would denounce his family (which would be hard, but, given the present circumstances, he thought he could manage it) and join the other side. Then he would be safe.  
It really was that easy. It had been, all along. He would join the other side, Harry's side, where he would be protected by Aurors and powerful wizards. The other side could win, couldn't they?  
Pansy had assured him that, yes, they could. Draco knew that they couldn't, but he didn't care. He would rather die for a cause he believed in then die because of one he didn't. It just seemed to make more sense.  
Draco opened his eyes, and almost screamed.  
Harry was standing there. And Draco forgot to speak or think or breathe for a moment, because his heart was doing that thing again, that goddamn thing that always made him feel like the world was spinning around and around.  
"S… sorry, sorry," Harry stammered, backing away a step. "I just… sorry." He turned to leave.  
Draco was on his feet before he knew why he was standing. He started to say something, but no sound came out. He didn't know what to say. So, without even thinking, he jumped off the bed, ignored the sudden pain in his chest, ran forward, and grabbed Harry's wrist.  
Harry stopped, and turned around. His eyes were wide. His hand was so warm and he was so close that Draco couldn't help but stare at him. Then Draco let go, almost automatically, muttering, "Sorry," and feeling a blush steal across his cheeks. Oh, he shouldn't have done that. What would Harry think?  
Harry took his hand again. "It's okay," he said. Smiling. "I just wanted to know if you're okay. I'm so sorry about what happened."  
Draco forgot to breathe for a second. He stared at their hands, as if it couldn't possibly be real that they were so close together. Him and Harry. Harry and him. He looked at Harry's eyes again, feeling like he was getting lost in them. He felt a little dizzy. Their noses were so close… were their noses allowed to be that close? Was that acceptable? Was Harry okay with that?  
By the way he was smiling it seemed that yes, he was more than okay with that.  
And so was Draco. After all that had happened yesterday, he thought that he deserved something good, for once. Even if it was just Harry and him holding hands.  
Harry sighed, and Draco felt his breath. It was warm, and it smelled like treacle tart. Harry smelled like treacle tart. How did he always manage to be so damn perfect? And how had Draco not seen it before? How had he ever pretended to hate him?  
()()()  
Pansy knocked. Twice.  
The Potions classroom was a strange place to be at five in the morning. She was here at five in the morning because she couldn't sleep. She couldn't sleep because she had to know something, something very important, and she couldn't rest until she knew.  
Snape answered the door almost immediately. He probably couldn't sleep either, Pansy realized. But his eyes did look quite bloodshot, and his skin was sickly and pale. Pansy winced when she saw him. He looked a mess.  
"Yes?" he asked irritably. His voice grated against her ears. "What is it?"  
Pansy took a deep breath. "You told us that the Slytherins escaped. But… is there any chance that Blaise Zabini is still here?"  
Pansy tried to block out all the thoughts that immediately screamed to be heard when she mentioned Zabini. He was a mystery to her. He probably always would be. After all, no one went to join the Dark Lord and just returned, completely fine and with all their limbs intact. Especially anyone who wasn't loyal to him. And Zabini couldn't be loyal to him, right? He had saved them, after all.  
So Pansy stood with bated breath as Snape stared down at her, curiosity lighting up his eyes. But when he spoke, his voice was perfectly monotone. "No. He escaped with the rest of them."  
Pansy let out her breath.  
Tomorrow. Detention. If you're still alive.  
Pansy and Draco were still alive, because of Zabini. And she would never get to thank him. Pansy had to bit the inside of her cheek hard to keep the disappointment from showing on her face. "Okay," she said. "I was just wondering, I guess. I didn't see him there. I wanted to make sure he was gone."  
The excuse sounded feeble, and she was sure that Snape could see right through it, but he just nodded once and closed the door, leaving Pansy to an empty hallway and a million thoughts.  
()()()  
The great hall was quiet.  
No one spoke. No knives clanged against plates. No one ate.  
Everyone was still. Everyone was staring at Dumbledore, who was standing in front of the high table, watching the students with his piercing blue gaze. He had his arms raised for silence, but he wasn't speaking.  
Harry glanced at Hermione. She was fiddling with her fingers in her lap, but she was sitting next to him, and that was good. He had forgiven her. He had to, after last night. He was even feeling fonder for Weasley, who had been there and had protected Draco and Pansy as fiercely as any other Gryffindor, minus Longbottom, who had slept through the whole thing.  
And Anastasia.  
Harry knew that if he looked in her direction, he would see that she was staring at him. He could feel it.  
He hated her.  
Harry looked up at the staff table. Minerva was adjusting her glasses. Moody's eye was rolling around in his head. Snape looked murderous. Just like normal.  
Snape. Harry hated Snape, too. He should have known. He was the head of Slytherin! He should have known. He should have stopped it.  
And then Harry looked at the chair next to him. Draco was sitting there, and Pansy was next to him. They couldn't very well sit at the empty Slytherin table, could they? But Harry couldn't help feeling ridiculously happy that Draco was sitting next to him.  
Harry sent him a small smile, and Draco smiled back. He was still pale, and he looked a bit tired, but his bruises were all gone. An hour ago, Pomfrey had declared that all effects from any hexes were gone. He would be fine.  
But that was just physical. Harry desperately hoped that Draco was really doing okay. Suddenly he cared so much.  
Dumbledore cleared his throat. Everyone in the great hall turned to look. Any noise sounded ten times louder, when everything was quiet. It was weird, being in a quiet great hall. Last year, it had always been full of noise…  
"Some of you may yet be unaware of what happened yesterday," Dumbledore began. A low murmur swept through the crowd. Harry saw that Pansy grabbed Draco's hand and held it tightly. Part of Harry wanted to do the same… no, knew that he should do the same, but he didn't.  
It was like his hand wouldn't move, as much as he wanted it to.  
Dumbledore ran his fingers through his beard. "The events of that night were… regretful. They should not have occured. They were damaging both to our students, and to our school. I, and the rest of the staff, would like to express our sincerest apologies to anyone hurt by these events. We have done, and will do, everything in our power to make things right."  
Snape looked especially murderous. Suddenly, it occurred to Harry that Snape could have been involved. He watched the man's face carefully. The way he glared at Dumbledore… yes, it could definitely be a possibility. Harry felt that familiar rage flare up in him again.  
Dumbledore sighed. He adjusted his robes, which was long and somber and purple. He adjusted his wizard's hat, and winced when the little bell on the top tinkled merrily. He adjusted his half-moon spectacles. He sighed again. Then he said, "The events of which I am speaking of are… when two Slytherin students were attacked by their own classmates. They were… there, from nine to midnight, the night before the last. Around midnight, they were rescued by Mr. Harry Potter-"  
Several heads turned to stare at Harry.  
"And taken to the Gryffindor common room. The brave Gryffindor students protected them from any further harm. And, as you may have noticed, the rest of Slytherin house is gone."  
Several heads turned to stare at the empty Slytherin table.  
"The only two of that house remaining are Mr. Draco Malfoy, and Miss Pansy Parkinson. They were the victims of this attack."  
Several heads turned. Harry threw caution to the wind and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly. Draco looked at him in surprise for a few moments, then whispered a thank you.  
Harry smiled to himself.  
"In light of these recent events, several changes will occur in Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry."  
There was a lot of whispering at that announcement. Harry, who already knew what these changes were, still felt a bit nervous. They were good changes, of course. But still… it would be strange.  
"The first change," Dumbledore said. "Slytherin house is no more. As of this moment, there are only three houses in Hogwarts."  
Harry glanced at Snape. He was a bit surprised to see that the Potions master didn't look extremely murderous at this announcement. He looked a bit… happy? Harry was confused. Perhaps he had another plan up his sleeve… or perhaps Harry was wrong?  
Dumbledore cleared his throat for silence. "Mr. Malfoy and Miss Parkinson will be included in Gryffindor house, as per their request."  
There was a lot of muttering at that announcement.  
"The second change. There will be heightened security within Hogwarts. While I do not think that any of our remaining students would act out like the old Slytherins did, we feel that this is still a prudent change to have. Aurors will now be walking within the castle, to make sure that all is well. The portraits have all been replaced with trained paintings from the Ministry. I would strongly encourage you all to read up on the Rules for Protection. And if anyone you know is in danger, we ask you to immediately inform a member of the staff."  
Harry shot a quick glare at Anastasia. She ignored him.  
"The next change," Dumbledore said, sounding a lot more cheerful about this one. "Was already decided before these events, but I and the rest of the staff have agreed that I might as well announce it now. Hogwarts is having a Defense Against the Dark Arts Tournament!" he announced, with a twinkle in his eye. "To rival the Triwizard."  
There was quite a lot of cheering.  
"Any after class activities, including detention, will be canceled to make time for the tournament," Dumbledore continued. Harry glanced at Draco. He shrugged, and Harry smiled, turning back around.  
Maybe Draco had felt the same way. He was sitting by Harry, after all. And he was looking at him. Harry felt his doubts drain away. He was just nervous. Yes, that was it.  
Dumbledore rambled on about the DADA tournament, and Harry let go of Draco's hand. He picked at his scrambled eggs. He didn't have much appetite. His stomach still had nervous butterflies in it, and he felt a little sick. He was definitely not looking forward to going to classes today.  
Dumbledore raised his hands for his final announcement. "In light of last night's events, classes for the day are canceled! There will be a special Hogsmeade trip instead. A team of Aurors will accompany any students who wish to participate. We leave at ten. Have a good day!"  
Draco snorted.  
"Are you going to go?" Harry heard Pansy asked him.  
Draco hesitated. "I don't know," he replied. "I guess it can't hurt. I'm just not really in the mood. And I don't really like the way all these idiots are glaring at me. I'm not looking forward to spending the day with them."  
Harry looked around and, sure enough, half the Gryffindors were glaring at Draco and Pansy. Seriously? Harry wanted to hex them into oblivion. How dare they? After everything that had happened?  
"I'll go with you," Harry said, before he could stop himself.  
And then he didn't want to stop himself, because Pansy grinned at him with something mischievous in her eyes, and then Draco smiled and laughed and said, "Okay, Potter." And then he took a huge bite of toast.  
Harry smiled at Pansy. She winked.  
This would be fun.  
()()()  
Draco and Pansy met in the line leaving for Hogsmeade. The great hall was full of chattering students, all bundled up in coats and scarves and hats. The ceiling was charmed to look like golden leaves were falling. Draco saw Professor Hagrid setting out fat, bright orange pumpkins on the tables. The air smelled like pumpkins and spices and apple cider.  
"Isn't it great?" Pansy asked, spinning around to see all the decorations. She smiled at Snape, who was looking especially sour. He was never very festive.  
Draco stuck his hands in the pockets of his coat. He still had a Slytherin scarf and hat, so he had left that behind. He didn't think he should wear it. Now his neck and ears were cold. But besides that… yes, it was great. Draco smiled and nodded, running his fingers through his hair absentmindedly.  
Pansy looked at him for a moment, then smirked as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. "Wondering when Harry's going to get here?" she asked.  
Draco scowled. She did know exactly what he was thinking. How did she do that?  
But it wasn't just that… "Pansy," he started to say. Suddenly, he needed to ask. "Are you sure that he won't..."  
"It'll be okay, Draco. We won't let him do anything to you," Pansy said with that determined look in her eyes.  
Draco smiled half-heartedly. She could say that, but his father had a way of doing anything he wanted to do, whenever he wanted to do it.  
But he would worry about that later.  
Pansy tapped him on the shoulder and pointed, but it was too late. "Boo!" Harry shouted, running up behind him and grabbing Draco's shoulders. Draco actually jumped, and then scowled. "Got you!" Harry sang.  
Godammit. Draco's heart was doing that thing again. It felt like his heart was going to fall out of his chest and onto the ground.  
Because Harry's hair was messy, and it was in his eyes, and he was laughing. He had freckles on his nose. His eyes were shining, and Draco could just tell that he was so happy. It was contagious. Suddenly, Draco felt ridiculously happy too.  
Draco felt himself smiling hugely, and he turned his face away to hide the blush that was spreading over his cheeks.  
"I brought you a scarf and a hat," Harry said. "Gryffindor colors." He held them up, and Draco grinned because they were hideous, but Harry was giving them to him, so they were special, too.  
And then Harry looked like he was having a battle with himself in his mind. He must have won, because he grinned. And then Harry was tying the scarf around Draco's neck and pulling the hat over his hair. Draco laughed when Harry smiled sheepishly. He was so damn cute.  
Draco glanced to where Pansy was, and saw that she was talking to Hermione. But she sent him a little smile and a thumbs up, and Draco grinned at her.  
Then Draco saw that Weasley was glaring at them, and Longbottom was pretending to gag, and Plum was staring, and Granger was looking out of the corner of her eye. Other Gryffindors that Draco didn't know were staring open-mouthed or glaring at them, too.  
"Ignore them," said Harry, who was looking, too. He flipped Weasley the bird. "Let's just go." He grabbed Draco's hand and glared at anyone who looked at them.  
The line was moving now. The Aurors were moving in and out of the group, checking signatures. Harry and Draco each held out their permission slips, and then suddenly they were outside in the cold autumn air. It smelled like maple trees, or maybe that was just Harry. Draco couldn't tell.  
Harry hesitated again. He looked at Draco, who was fully blushing now. Then Harry took his hand and it was warm and nice and made Draco's heart do that thing again. "Come on," Harry said. He started to run, and Draco was pulled after him. They ran down the hill, laughing until their chests hurt, scarves flying.  
The others stared, but they didn't care.  
()()()  
Pansy watched them go, smiling secretly. They were so damn cute together. How had she not recognized it before? They had obviously been embarrassingly in love for each other. She had known about Draco's crush, but how had she not seen that Harry had it too?  
But… something was different now. They were more comfortable around each other. They seemed like they weren't hiding it anymore, by the way they were constantly touching and holding hands. Had something happened?  
Pansy's only guess was that the horrible things they had both experienced had brought them closer together. She couldn't think of anything else. Maybe they had snogged too, or something. But shared experiences like that always brought people closer, in her opinion. She had seen it before.  
Yes. It was just like Harry and the Plum girl in first year, she realized. After the troll. Except this time, instead of a slightly brainless, much too quiet, plain looking girl and Harry… it was Draco and Harry.  
It was like night and day.  
And Pansy loved that, because Harry made Draco happy and that was good enough for her. She smiled as she watched them run away down the hill. They were adorable, too. That was a bonus.  
()()()  
Anastasia wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck. She stuck her hands in her pockets. She wiped away the water from her eyes. None of it helped her feel warmer, or any less miserable.  
Hermione glanced at her. "They're good for each other, you know. If it's really true. If they really are together, like Pansy thinks. I know it hurts but… at least they're good for each other," she twirled a strand of her bushy hair and sighed.  
Anastasia nodded, but she still felt numb. She hadn't expected Harry to move on so quickly. It hurt. And, besides that, there was still that strange urge to give him treacle tart…. Gnawing at her brain, and it would never stop.  
She focused on walking. The crunching of leaves under her boots. The smell of maple trees. The feeling of the wind on her face and in her hair.  
But none of it could make the itch go away.  
An itch that she couldn't scratch. Was this someone's idea of torture? Had someone cast a spell on her? Anastasia didn't know any spells that could do that, but maybe Hermione did…  
"Hermione?" Anastasia asked, cautiously.  
Hermione turned to her. "Yes?" she asked, with a fake little smile on her face.  
Oh… Anastasia was probably just a crazy. An itch. Yeah right. That's something a crazy person would say, wasn't it? Either that, or she was imagining things. It was just all in her head. Of course it was.  
Pansy ran up to join them, with a steaming mug of apple cider in her hands. "What'd I miss?" she asked, with a flip of her shining red hair, and a mischievous gleam in her eyes. "Do you think I should pour some down Weasley's shirt?" she asked.  
Hermione glanced at Anastasia, who just shrugged. It wasn't worth bothering her over.  
So they ran off to find Weasley.  
()()()  
Pansy's hands were burning around the mug of apple cider. These gloves were too thin. Owwww.  
Hmm. Well, naturally, that meant that she should probably…  
"Ahhhhhhhhh!"  
Dump it out.  
Weasley screamed, arms flailing wildly in the air, running like an idiot, around and around in circles. His red face complimented his red hair nicely.  
Pansy smirked.  
Longbottom was shouting and Weasley was screaming with cider dripping from his hair into his eyes and Plum and Granger were laughing, and now a chair was knocked over and the people sitting there had butterbeer splashed in their faces and Madam Rosmerta had dropped a plate. Everyone else in the Three Broomsticks was laughing until their chests hurt.  
Revenge was sweet.  
()()()  
"Where do you want to go?" Harry asked. He spun around in a few circles, just for the hell of it. He was feeling deliriously happy today. His nose and ears were frozen, and his cheeks were burning, but he didn't care. He was in Hogsmeade with Draco. Everyone knew that Hogsmeade was where people went for dates. So Harry couldn't be happier.  
Draco didn't seem to notice that he was fidgeting with the tassels on his Gryffindor scarf. The scarf and hat clashed beautifully with his complexion. After seeing him in emerald green for so many years, it was a bit strange to see him wearing Gryffindor colors. Harry realized that he didn't mind it, at all.  
"Um… Honeydukes?" Draco said.  
Harry forgot that he had asked the question. He had gotten a bit lost in staring at Draco. "Sure!" he said, grabbing Draco's hand again.  
Draco didn't move.  
Harry looked at their hands. "This is okay, right? I mean… I don't need too…" Harry let go. Maybe he had been wrong, about all of this. He had thought for a moment that Draco might like him but… he probably didn't. Oh, that would be just awful. And it was probably the truth. Harry bit his lip.  
Draco looked surprised. "No! It's not you. It's just, you know… all of them."  
Harry followed Draco's eyes. Weasley and Longbottom, standing on benches, pointing and laughing to each other. Weasley was holding a camera.  
Draco sighed, pulling his hat farther over his forehead. "Longbottom'll get that bloody reporter to put his pictures in the Prophet, and now my father's going to see that we went to Hogsmeade together."  
Harry tried to put his hand on Draco's shoulder, maybe to make him feel better, but Draco pushed it away. Harry sighed. "It doesn't matter what your father thinks! You're protected here."  
"I know," Draco said with a scowl. "But he's still my father."  
They walked in silence for a few moments, only interrupted when Longbottom fell off the bench and both Harry and Draco burst into laughter. Weasley's shout of, "Fuck you!" while he jumped down to pick up Longbottom only made them laugh louder.  
"Idiots," Harry said with a shake of his head.  
"Truly, the lowest of the low in our society," Draco said.  
Harry noticed that Weasley's hair looked extremely wet and greasy today. He was about to comment on that, when Draco said, "Don't…" and then stopped talking so that he could pull Harry towards him. Harry was a bit caught off guard, and very confused, when he found that he was suddenly very, very close to Draco. They were basically hugging.  
"You almost ran into that," Draco said, pushing Harry away from him.  
Oh. Harry had almost ran into a light pole.  
Perhaps he should focus less on Weasley and Longbottom, and more on where he was walking.  
"Sorry," Draco said. His face had gone a bit pink, which was either because of the cold or because he was embarrassed.  
Harry would like to think it was the second one.  
Harry looked up and saw Honeydukes looming above them. It was decorated nicely for Halloween, with a few pumpkins on the doorstep and a few real black cats perched on the roof.  
"No. I was going to thank you, actually. That would have bloody hurt," Harry said as they walked into Honeydukes. Instantly, the smell of chocolate and cheap candy overwhelmed him, and he felt a bit weak in the knees. Shelves and shelves of delicious sweets - chocolate frogs, cockroach clusters, lemon drops. The store was crowded with Hogwarts students, all practically foaming at the mouth.  
Draco looked completely unaffected, but Harry ignored that and led him over to his favorite section of the store. A shelf of treacle tart. "Look at it!" he cried, breathing in the beautiful smell of his favorite sweet. "Isn't it beautiful?"  
Draco shrugged. "I don't really like treacle tart."  
Harry just stared at him.  
Finally, he turned away, and saw several people looking at them curiously. They must have heard him announcing his love at the top of his lungs. Or something.  
Anastasia was nearby, pretending to look at some Every Flavor Beans with Pansy and Hermione. Weasley and Longbottom had just entered. Jesus. Why did everyone have to follow him everywhere? Couldn't he have some peace for once?  
Harry ignored the stares, grabbing a piece of tart and getting in the empty line to buy it. He was a bit concerned to see that his supply of coins was getting a bit low. He would have to be careful. He had never had much money - Mrs. Figg always paid for his school things.  
Oh well.  
Harry finished buying the tart, and took a bite. It was delicious. Still warm, sweet, with the perfect, golden, honey flavor… Harry let it melt in his mouth, closing his eyes and basking in the taste. He stuffed the rest of it into his pocket, casting a quick spell to make sure it wouldn't melt, or squish, or anything equally distasteful.  
Harry pretended to fiddle with his robes, staring at Draco out of the corner of his eye. Where to go next? What did Draco want to do? Harry wished he could read his thoughts. It was so hard to just wander around like he didn't want to pull Draco close and kiss him. If he knew that Draco felt the same, he would have done it by now. But he didn't. And he didn't want to ruin the fragile friendship that they seemed to have created through some kind of unspoken agreement to be civil to each other.  
But that didn't make it any less agonizing.  
It wasn't just Draco's looks. Even though he was beautiful, with his perfect hair and his perfect eyes and his shy little smile. Harry smirked absently, looking at Draco, who was looking at a bag of sweets. No, it wasn't just his looks. This was someone completely new. Draco without the mask.  
And Harry really, really liked that person.  
Which was… something he would never have expected. But after the whole thing happened, he felt like they had some kind of mutual bond. Not a very strong one, but that was why they were going to Hogsmeade together… to get to know each other.  
Harry just wished they could get to know each other a bit faster.  
Draco turned around. "Chocolate or caramel?" he asked, holding up two bags of popcorn.  
Harry rolled his eyes. "Chocolate," he said. "Hurry up. Let's go!"  
Draco muttered something about impatient screwts, getting into the line to buy the bag of popcorn.  
Then Anastasia tapped Harry on the shoulder.  
He turned, but when he saw that it was her he turned back around. He didn't even pretend he hadn't seen her, he just stared straight ahead, resolutely ignoring her watery, pleading eyes.  
"Harry…" she whined, tapping him again like a woodpecker trying to drill a hole through a tree.  
"Hey, Longbottom, do you hear something?" Harry asked, because Longbottom was standing right in front of him and was looking especially clueless. His eyes were unfocused and he was looking at nothing.  
"What?" he asked, wobbling a little.  
Harry scowled. "Are you drunk or something?" he sighed. "Of course, he would be useless when I want him to say something unnecessarily cruel," he muttered under his breath, just loud enough so that she could hear him.  
"Harry…" she whimpered again.  
Harry whirled around, ignoring the looks from people around him. Ignoring the fact that Draco was watching, too. "What do you want, Plum? Spit it out!"  
She flinched, staring at the floor and letting her messy hair fall over her eyes. Harry hoped that she wasn't crying. He didn't think he could handle tears.  
But then she let out a pathetic little sob, covered her eyes with her hands, and ran away, pushing through a crowd of people and out the door. Hermione and Pansy followed right after. Hermione looked back at Harry, shaking her head slightly before she walked out. But Harry didn't feel an ounce of guilt. She deserved everything she got. And who was Hermione to tell him what to do, anyway?  
Harry waited until they were gone. He glared at all the people who were staring at him, and then smiled bitterly at Draco, who was looking very confused. Then, because he couldn't stand to be in that place anymore, he walked out the door to go sit on a bench outside. He watched Anastasia, Hermione, and Pansy disappear into a cafe, and hated every moment of it.  
How had he ever thought that he loved her? She must have been using a love potion, or something, because Harry couldn't imagine how he had ever felt anything but dislike for her. She never spoke. She was just there. And when she finally decided to do something, it was to eavesdrop on his conversation with Draco. Harry would never have done that to her…  
Harry tried to push away the thought that… maybe he would have.  
Then Draco walked out.  
Harry stood. "Sorry about that," he said. "It's no big deal. We…" he might as well just say it. "We broke up a while ago. It wasn't very… it wasn't the best," he shrugged, and left it at that.  
Draco sighed. His breath disappeared in a cloud of steam, and he wrapped his Gryffindor scarf closer around him. "Was that during our detention?" he asked.  
Harry just nodded.  
Draco sat down on the bench. Harry sat down too. It had gotten very cold, and a few snowflakes were even drifting down lazily from the sky, and landing on Draco's robes and on his scarf and on his face. Draco breathed into his gloved hands, and then stuffed them in his pockets. Harry could see his breath disappearing into the air.  
Harry tried to ignore the unspoken question that was hanging in the air between them. Now they both knew what had happened to Harry during the detention, but what about Draco? What could have possibly made him cry during the five minutes he was alone in the Potions classroom?  
Harry didn't ask. Either Draco would tell him, or he wouldn't.  
But the silence stretched on, and Harry fidgeted, rubbing little patterns in the grass with his foot. The silence wasn't awkward, but Harry wished it could be filled.  
Then, finally, Draco spoke. "Do you want to go inside?" he asked. "It's getting cold."  
Harry hadn't noticed, but he was shivering. The tips of his fingers were numb. His ears felt like two blocks of ice on the sides of his head.  
Draco laughed. "You have snow in your hair."  
Harry wished there was enough snow to make a snowball, because then he would have thrown it at him. Then he remembered that he was a wizard.  
"Ow!" Draco yelled, when the extra puffy snowball that Harry had conjured hit him in the face. "Oh, you are so on."  
And so the air was filled with flying snow and laughter.  
()()()  
Next: Howlers, angst, and Malfoy Manor. The next few chapters will be slightly intense, but after that things should calm down for Harry and Draco. For a while. And trust me, I'm not just randomly torturing my characters, this all actually MATTERS so don't stop reading, lol.  
Please review if you liked it, or if you didn't, then tell me why!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: howlers, and a healthy dosage of angst.  
> Spoiler: Anastasia gets the stone instead of Harry, and Voldemort snatches it out of her hand instead.


	13. 12 - Howler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More plot! Pretty angsty. I’m sorry, but I just can’t help it.  
> Hope you like it, really hope you love it! If you do, then review the shit out of it!  
> Byeee.

Twelve.  
Howler.  
-

()()()  
Rita Skeeter peered up at him from behind her clipboard. The large glasses she was wearing made her eyes look bigger. They reminded Neville of a bug’s eyes.  
“Now, Mr. Longbottom, I know you understand how important this is for your image. We can make this all about you! I could turn you into a hero,” she said, with a slight smile surrounded by bright red lipstick. It made Neville feel uneasy, although he wasn’t sure why.  
“Su… sure,” he stammered. “How much?” he fidgeted with his hands, staring around at the walls, the slanted ceiling, the garish green carpet, anything but her. They were in one of the empty classrooms, sitting on opposite sides of the table. Rita looked completely at ease, but for some reason… this time, Neville didn’t feel quite right about giving all this information up to her.  
Rita tapped her pencil against her chin, pretending to be deep in thought. Then she said, “Five hundred galleons,” and then smirked again.  
Neville’s mouth dropped open. Rita’s wand was out in the blink of an eye, and then Neville was blinded by a flash of light. Rita slipped it back into her pocket. “A simple charm,” she explained. “My wand can take pictures for me. No need for bulky cameras!” she said, sounding very pleased with herself.  
Neville scowled. “Why did you take a picture of me?” he asked, quite tonelessly.  
Rita pulled out her pen, dropped it, and sighed. She ducked under the table. “So that I could get a picture of you with your mouth dropped open, of course! You looked hilarious.”  
Neville sulked, silently fuming.  
When Rita reappeared, Neville was immediately blinded by another flash of light. “Perfect!” she exclaimed. “You even look a little bit red.”  
Neville clenched his fists. “Did you pretend to drop your pen?”  
Rita just shrugged. “That’s irrelevant. What is relevant, however, is what happened two days ago, at midnight. Care to elaborate? Remember. Image,” she settled back in her chair and crossed her legs, tapping her pen against her chin again.  
“Well,” Neville began, racking his brain for any details. “Malfoy and Parkinson went to the Slytherin dorm.”  
Rita leaned over the table. “Yes, but where were you?” she asked.  
“I… I was asleep,” Neville admitted.  
Rita shook her head, smiling widely with blood-red lips, tapping her pen against her paper. “Are you sure? Maybe you’re not remembering right. Where. Were. You? Neville Longbottom, savior of the wizarding world, the boy who lived... Well, two students were attacked by their own house. Their housemates were chased away, and the students were saved. So, tell me again. Where were you?” she whispered with a smirk.  
Neville couldn’t stop the smile that was spreading over his face.  
()()()  
The line of students walked through the great hall’s doors in a gust of wind and snow. Stomping snow off their boots and wringing out scars and blowing on hands. Aurors surrounded them, wands at the ready, protection charms already cast.  
Food was waiting for them, steaming and hot on the plates. Turkey, and mashed potatoes, and bowls of strawberries, and pieces of treacle tart.  
Draco felt slightly sick because of the delicious smells of food. He and Harry had eaten too many sweets in Hogsmeade. He had finished the whole bag of chocolate popcorn, and Harry had eaten a lot of treacle tart. Draco didn’t understand his obsession with the stuff, but, then again, there were a lot of things he didn’t understand about Harry.  
They sat down at the Gryffindor table. People stared at him, or glared at him, but Draco was getting used to that by now. Weasley whispered something to Longbottom, who laughed like a baboon. Harry leaned over the table and said something vile to Weasley, who promptly turned bright purple. Then, Longbottom spontaneously choked on a chunk of mashed potato, and poor McGonagall had to drag him to the hospital wing. The thought of touching any part of Longbottom made Draco shudder.  
And then Dumbledore stood.  
The great hall went silent, aside from Harry loudly dropping his fork, and muttering, “Ow!” when Draco elbowed him in the side.  
“Shut up,” Draco hissed.  
“On your table, you will find a box,” Dumbledore began in his quiet, slightly raspy voice. As soon as he spoke, the great hall fell silent. “Each of you will put a piece of paper into this box. This paper will contain your first and last name. You will underline this. Below your name, you will write the name of exactly one person that you would like to be partnered with for the DADA tournament.Tomorrow, the results will be tallied and read aloud at dinner.”  
Then Dumbledore sat down, and the great hall exploded with noise.  
Draco tried not to meet Harry’s eyes. He didn’t want him to know how desperately he wanted to write Harry’s name down because, well, that was just sad. And, anyway, maybe Harry didn’t want to be partners with him. Maybe Harry was sick of seeing Draco all the time. Maybe he would rather be partners with Granger, or… Lovegood, or Thomas, or…  
“Wanna be partners?” Harry asked, nudging Draco’s shoulder with his own, a big, goofy smile on his face.  
Draco groaned dramatically. “Fiiiiiiiiiiiiine.”  
Granger smiled at Draco. Her eyes were definitely either watering, or just naturally big and brown and sad. Draco didn’t know how to interpret that, so he just ignored her.  
When he looked back he was glad he had, because Harry glanced around quickly to make sure that Weasley wasn’t watching, and then he flung his arms around Draco, wrapping him up in a big fat hug.  
Draco accidentally let out an embarrassing, “Oof!” and Harry snorted into his shoulder, letting go and rolling his eyes.  
Draco glared at him.  
Harry smirked.  
Granger watched the entire exchange with a puzzled expression on her face that definitely did not suit her. Draco wished that people would stop staring at him. Harry seemed perfectly comfortable, but Draco hated it. He felt like his every action was being judged.  
Probably because it was.  
So Draco tried to ignore the eyes as he wrote his name, underlined it, and then wrote Harry Potter beneath it. Who the hell would have expected this? He smiled a bit wryly as he slipped it into the box.  
Harry smirked at him, folded his paper, and dropped it in.  
And they went to Potions class.  
()()()  
Malfoy Manor was dark.  
If Blaise was the type for metaphors… he would have said that it looked like a monster. Glowing, yellow eyes like windows. A gaping mouth like a huge black door. A monstrous, writhing black body like a mansion, shadowed against the reddening sky. Like blood.  
They landed on the lawn in front of the mansion. Silent, swooping shapes, falling out of the sky. Cloaks swirled around them. They must have looked like bats from the windows. Blaise knew it would only be a matter of time before they were spotted, but for now he was enjoying the feeling of being hidden.  
Nott tossed his broom to Goyle, who dropped it. “Finally,” he said, with a cackle and that hideous smile plastered onto his face. “Thought we would never get here.”  
They had been spotted near London. The results were clear, from the side of Nott’s head. Half of his hair was burned off. Goyle had a limp, now. The rest of the group had injuries, too. Blaise absently touched the gash on his forearm.  
A small price to pay for the greater good. Luckily, their escape must not have been in the papers. Otherwise, they would surely have been caught.  
And besides, the blood hid the Dark Mark. Blaise hated looking at that thing. He always felt sick, like he was going to throw up. He didn’t anymore, because all he saw was dried blood, and that was easier.  
But if he washed it off, he would see the ink. The ink that crawled beneath his skin, dirty and creeping, polluting him with fat, ugly pieces of darkness. Sliming its way through his bloodstream, pins and needles to his heart. He could feel it, eating at him, eroding him with dark magic. Sometimes he felt like it was becoming a part of him.  
But it was gone for now, and he could think.  
Blaise was surrounded by ex-Slytherins, most of them already Death Eaters, and was about to walk into the manor where the Dark Lord lived. He was walking willingly into a den of lions.  
And he loved every second of it.  
“Stay strong. It will be so difficult, but you must stay strong,” Dumbledore had said, his old eyes watering.  
So difficult? This was easy. Anything was easy for Blaise, who didn’t feel fear. Perhaps Dumbledore was just weak, so he expected everyone else to be, too.  
Nott shoved him out of the way, but Blaise easily regained his footing. His father had forced him to learn how to dance, after all. He had never fallen since. “Come on,” Nott growled. “Let’s go. I’m fucking hungry.”  
Goyle grunted in agreement, sloshing after Nott through the muddy lawn. After the snow had melted, it had been replaced by a layer of slushy mud. Blaise cast a quick spell to prevent his shoes from getting ruined.  
He was using Malfoy’s wand. It worked well… but for some reason, he felt a bit guilty every time he touched it. Blaise wasn’t used to that.  
He had saved them, after all. Why would he feel guilty?  
Nott had Pansy’s wand in his back pocket. Blaise liked the fact that, if he had to, he could cast an easy wandless spell that would set off her wand and make it do something nasty to Nott’s arse. Probably a stunning spell.  
Wandless magic was easy, once you had been forced to do it every day for six years. It could come in handy, now. Blaise was suddenly glad that he had labored over it for all those years. Yes, if he had to, he could stun each of these buffoons. Even if they took his wand. And, if worse came to worse, he was carrying his broom, and he knew for a fact that he was the fastest here. He had never played Quidditch, but he had always practiced flying.  
Once he got into the Manor, however, it would be much harder to escape. He would have to rely on not having to escape. The thought was unsettling, but Blaise tried to push it away.  
The mud ended where the tennis court began.  
“Bloody hell,” Crabbe said, looking around. “This place is huge!”  
Nott sneered. “Don’t tell me… you’ve never seen a bloody tennis court before?”  
The fact that although these were convicts who were flying across England to join the Dark Lord, but they still had awful senses of humor, made Blaise smirk to himself.  
And the tennis court ended, and then they were walking down a dark path to the doors. The loomed high above Blaise, and he had a sudden feeling like they were about to fall and squish him into a pulp.  
Then Nott reached out a hand, and knocked on the door.  
The sound echoed, like a drumbeat. It matched the beating of Blaise’s heart.  
()()()  
Lunch.  
And Weasley flung the paper down by Harry’s elbow.  
He put down his sandwich and looked up at Weasley, who was looking very similar to a tomato, breathing heavily, and trying to speak but not quite succeeding.  
“Fine. I’ll read it,” Harry said, grimacing when he saw the front page of the Prophet. Draco and Pansy, who were sitting on either side of him, leaned over to look, too.  
-  
Boy Who Lived Saves Students - By Rita Skeeter.  
(Warning: this article contains mention of You-Know-Who’s name. Do not read if this causes you to become anxious.)  
Over in France, the sun is shining, ice cream is melting, and the Tournament is a roaring success.  
But things are not all sunshine and sprinkles.  
At Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, twenty students of Slytherin house have left the school, the most notable among them being: Theodore Nott, Daphne Greengrass, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and Blaise Zabini, all of whom have parents who are confirmed Death Eaters. These students are allegedly heading for the unknown location where You-Know-Who is currently hiding.  
“This is truly a tragedy,” stated Hogwarts headmaster Albus Dumbledore. “These students could have been great wizards and witches. They could have done much good with their lives. Instead, they chose to attack two other students and then run away, to go join Voldemort. It is a tragedy, and I will mourn the loss of my students until the day I die.”  
Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy, the students who were attacked, have completely recovered. Still, they will be surrounded by Aurors at all hours.  
The wizarding world has only one person to thank for the escape of these two students. At exactly midnight, Neville Longbottom snuck into the Slytherin common room, under an extraordinarily difficult invisibility spell. He carried both students out of the dormitories, while casting an astoundingly challenging protection charm to protect all three of them. When the Slytherins charged him, he kicked them out of the way.  
“It’s amazing,” stated Ron Weasley, a friend of Neville’s. “I knew he was good at charms class, but I didn’t think he was this good.”  
Truly, the wizarding world has never had a better reason to thank the boy who lived. Let us all raise our glasses in a toast. A toast to Neville Longbottom.  
-  
Harry glared at Weasley, about to either say something vile or punch him in the face, but Weasley spoke first.  
“I never said that.” His voice was sharp as scissors. Harry could see that he was so angry that his hands were shaking, and his face was getting redder by the second. “He made that up,” Weasley said, jerking his head towards where Longbottom was sitting, surrounded by a flock of mesmerized students. “I know that he was asleep. I saw you come in with them.”  
Harry only just remembered that Pansy and Draco were still sitting next to him. “This is disgusting,” Pansy murmured. Draco nodded, but he was still looking at Weasley with a strange expression on his face.  
“Why don’t they know?” he asked, gesturing to the people who were crowded around Longbottom. “No one told them that Harry saved us? No one mentioned it?”  
Weasley sighed. “Ernie Macmillan. He said that Nev… that Longbottom saved you. They wouldn’t believe anyone who said otherwise, not even you two. The ones who were bloody saved.”  
Harry sent Draco a sympathetic glance. But Draco didn’t look angry, he just looked thoughtful. “The way gossip spreads at Hogwarts…” he murmured, with a shake of his head.  
Draco patted the chair next to him, and Weasley sat down.  
Harry noticed idly that Hermione was watching them, looking mildly enraged.  
()()()  
Draco saw Marvolo fly through the window with a screech that silenced the entire hall.  
And Draco felt his heart fall to his stomach. Marvolo was carrying a smoking Howler, which was vibrating violently, as if it had a mind of its own and wanted to escape.  
Marvolo dropped to the table in front of Draco with a swish, a massive flap of his wings, and another furious screech in Draco’s direction. The Howler promptly grew a mouth with sharp teeth and red lips.  
It was from his mother.  
Draco immediately grabbed the Howler to run out of the great hall with it, but it was red-hot and Draco hissed and pulled his hand away. “Merlin’s beard,” he muttered, scowling at the letter, purposefully not looking at Harry, or at anyone else, for that matter.  
So Draco stood up, pushing his chair to the ground with a crash, his robes flowing around him, slightly Snape-like. Everyone was looking at him, and the great hall was silent. Draco didn’t want to think about what she was going to say - he already had a few guesses. Instead he just turned on his heel and walked out, trying to maintain a bit of dignity. He ignored the fact that his face was burning and that everyone was staring at him and that the anxiety was rising up in waves.  
He slammed the door behind him.  
“Bloody hell, this is exciting,” Seamus Finnegan said. “Any moment now. Wait for it!  
Colin Creevey squeaked, “It’s opening its mouth! It’s rising into the air!”  
“How do you know that?” Seamus asked.  
Colin laughed. “Penelope’s telling me. Her portrait is on the other side of the door.”  
Draco heard Penelope’s shrill voice from the other side of the door. “Oh god! Everyone is staring! Longbottom’s using a camera spell! This is going to be great!”  
The portraits all laughed.  
Draco wanted nothing more than to rip them off the wall, or maybe run away to the boys bathroom like a coward, but he also needed to know what she was going to say. Everyone already knew that he was a coward, after all. It wouldn’t make a difference.  
He should have stayed and taken it. But he was a Slytherin - would always be a Slytherin - and Slytherins were cowards.  
Penelope shrieked. “It’s happening!” then she cackled like a madman.  
Draco closed his eyes when he heard his mother’s voice.  
“DRACO!” she screamed.  
He heard gasps and laughter from everyone in the great hall.  
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU THINKING? I’VE BEEN WORRIED SICK!”  
That earned a lot of laughter.  
Draco sank to the floor, leaning against the door, trying to ignore the fact that everything was going blurry and weird and that he was breathing wrong and that he couldn’t see, and that his heart was pounding like a drum in his chest.  
He was fine.  
“WHERE ARE YOU? ALL THE OTHERS ARE HERE BUT YOU’RE STILL AT HOGWARTS AND....”  
Her voice started to sound shrill, hysterical. Draco winced.  
“YOU’D BETTER COME COME RIGHT AWAY! DRACO, I’M SERIOUS! WHATEVER YOU’RE THINKING OF DOING… PLEASE DON’T DO IT.”  
More laughter. Draco drew his knees up to his chest and hugged them tightly.  
“DRACO… WE’VE HEARD RUMORS. TERRIBLE THINGS THAT YOU WOULD NEVER DO. THINGS I KNOW YOU WOULD NEVER DO. THINGS LIKE… BEING WITH THAT POTTER BOY.”  
That earned quite a reaction.  
“AND BETRAYING YOUR FAMILY. I KNOW THAT EVERYONE WILL HEAR THIS, BUT I DON’T CARE. DRACO, YOU HAVE TO REMEMBER WHICH SIDE YOU ARE ON.”  
Oh god.  
Draco clenched his fists against the darkness that was creeping up on him. He couldn’t see anything but a deep, dark tunnel. He couldn’t move.  
He should get away. He had to get away. They would open these doors and attack him. Just like last time. Just like…  
Don’t think about that.  
But he already had. And he remembered the blinding lights and the blinding pain and the leering looks of the Slytherins, like a horde of grinning clowns all bathed in green lights, and he heard screams and he didn’t know whose they were… but Pansy was unconscious, so they must be his.  
Draco let out some sort of strangled choking noise. He wanted to scream. He had to get out. But his breathing had already run away from him. He couldn’t breathe if he tried. And his arms were shaking around his knees, and everything was shrinking around him. The hallway was closing in. Draco whimpered, burying his face in his knees, but the thoughts and the fears just overwhelmed him. Like waves.  
“Bloody hell, mate. You alright?” Draco dimly heard Seamus Finnigan say. “Should I get help? Colin, I should get help, right?”  
“I dunno. He looks fine to me.”  
“Colin, you’re such an idiot. Course he’s not alright. Should I ask Penelope to get help?”  
“I dunno.”  
“Jesus, Colin. Fine. I’ll just do it anyway. Oy, Penny!”  
Their voices faded away, and Draco had the feeling that he was entirely, completely alone. Just floating in the darkness of nowhere at all. Everything had shrunk to the size of him and his face buried in his knees and the pounding of his heart, which was thundering and ringing in his ears.  
The darkness would overcome him, and they would find him there. Small and shaking on the floor.  
“Cowards don’t deserve dignity,” Lucius spat. “They deserve to run away with their tails between their legs. See Pettigrew here? This is what cowards deserve.”  
Draco closed his eyes tightly, but he could still hear the screams as Pettigrew was put under Crucio, again and again and again. The Dark Lord’s shrill laughter sent shivers down his spine.  
Lucius’s cold hand on Draco’s shoulder made him jump, and made his eyes open. Lucius was staring at him, something unreadable in his expression. “I sincerely hope you never become like him, Draco,” he said, almost kindly, but it still chilled Draco to think of himself there, writhing on the ground, burning beneath the Dark Lord’s fury.  
Dying and dying and dying all over again.  
Lucius smirked when Draco started to choke on the stale Manor air that smelled like disgusting plastic flowers. He smirked when Draco’s heartbeat started to race as he imagined himself there. Just ten feet. Only ten feet separated them. Yet Pettigrew was there, screaming and screaming and screaming.  
Don’t be a coward. Don’t be like Pettigrew.  
That was a good rule.  
And then Draco felt a hand on his shoulder.  
He jumped.  
He attacked it. Hitting at it and clawing at it, anything to make it go away. All his could think of was his father’s spidery hand on his shoulder and the screams of agony…. And the Dark Lord’s laugh.  
And then Draco opened his eyes.  
“Oh,” he said.  
It was Harry. And Harry was smiling at him (traces of some kind of intense emotion were still on his face, but he was smiling nevertheless) and tucking his wand into his pocket, so he must have cast Reficio and that was why Draco could think again.  
Harry sighed and wrapped Draco up in a hug.  
“Getting sentimental, are we, Potter?” Draco asked, but there wasn’t any bite in his words.  
“Fuck you, Malfoy,” Harry whispered. There wasn’t any bite in his words, either.  
()()()  
Ron could only stare at the letter. It had risen at least three feet into the air, and smoke was now pouring out of it. He thought he could even see a few flames.  
That was kind of funny. Ron laughed half-heartedly along with the others, but he stopped when he saw how tightly Malfoy was gripping the table. And the look on his face. Classic Malfoy - indifference with a tinge of disgust. But if Ron didn’t know better, he would think that Malfoy was faking it.  
And then Malfoy stood up, throwing his chair to the floor. The great hall was completely silent. Everyone was staring at him. But Malfoy just lifted his chin in the air and walked out, calm as ever, and even Ron could appreciate that.  
“DRACO!” the letter shrieked.  
Ron laughed. It was from his mom. That was funny. But no one near him laughed, no one but Longbottom, who let out a loud guffaw and a few chewed up pieces of apple. Ron glared at him. Maybe he shouldn’t laugh. He didn’t want to be like Longbottom.  
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU THINKING? I’VE BEEN WORRIED SICK!”  
That was funny. Surely. Ron laughed awkwardly, but stopped when Granger glared at him.  
She looked quite pretty when she was angry.  
“WHERE ARE YOU? ALL THE OTHERS ARE HERE BUT YOU’RE STILL AT HOGWARTS AND YOU’D BETTER COME RIGHT AWAY! I’M SERIOUS! WHATEVER YOU’RE THINKING OF DOING… PLEASE DON’T DO IT.”  
Thinking of doing? What was Malfoy thinking of doing?  
Ron saw that Potter and Parkinson were having quite an intense conversation. If he wasn’t so intent on listening to the Howler, he would have eavesdropped.  
“DRACO… WE’VE HEARD RUMORS. TERRIBLE THINGS THAT YOU WOULD NEVER DO. THINGS I KNOW YOU WOULD NEVER DO. THINGS LIKE… BEING WITH THAT POTTER BOY.”  
Ron laughed out loud at that, along with nearly everyone else in the great hall. He glanced at Ernie Macmillan, who was looking very pleased with himself. So the rumors had been right. Maybe Ron could sell the pictures he had taken at Hogsmeade, the ones of Potter and Malfoy on their date. Surely Ernie would take them. He would think they were hilarious.  
“AND BETRAYING YOUR FAMILY. I KNOW THAT EVERYONE WILL HEAR THIS, BUT I DON’T CARE. DRACO, YOU HAVE TO REMEMBER WHICH SIDE YOU ARE ON.”  
That earned a lot of booing and hissing. Someone from the Hufflepuff table yelled, “Death Eater scum!” and their friends roared in approval. There was a lot of clapping and some cheers.  
“I’m going after him,” Ron heard Potter whisper.  
Ick. Probably to snog in a hallway. Gross. Ron didn’t get why a boy would ever want to snog another boy.  
Then the Howler exploded into a million little pieces, and the noise died down to a lot of whispering. Ron glanced at the High Table, and saw that all the professors were gathered around in groups and whispering to each other.  
“No, Harry… you can’t. It’ll only make it worse if people see you’re alone together,” Parkinson protested.  
And then the portrait screamed. Ron recognized Penelope’s Clearwater’s voice.  
Instantly, Potter was on his feet. Parkinson didn’t protest, just let him go. He ran to the door, footsteps echoing behind him, and the great hall was silent again until the door slammed shut.  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: lunatics, chaos, confessions of love, and monsters.


	14. Thirteen -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm going to try and update once a week.  
> If you want to read ahead, I have several more chapters posted on Fanfiction.net. I don't want to post them all at once on here.

Thirteen.  
Furorem.  
-  
But first, a sappy moment :) I’ve been editing the first five chapters, and I do recommend that you read them because I think they are hilarious, and SO much better than the original version.   
It’s been so strange reading them because it really shows how far I’ve come as a writer, even within just this story. Reading it, I’d say my writing used to be bland and colorless, without much description or emotion. My writing’s still not perfect, and it never will be, but in the three short months since I first published the prologue, I’ve improved so much and I’m just so happy about that! :)  
And I’ve hit 100,000 prewritten words! That’s absolutely BONKERS! I’m not a writer, I’m just a fucking high schooler! I shouldn’t be able to write that many words!!!!!! I’m sooo happy. :)  
And, again, I hope no one is confused by my stupid combining of chapters… this IS the most recent chapter, and not the old chapter thirteen.   
Anyway. Enjoy the chapter!  
()()()  
Pickles had been waiting for this for a long time. Years of slaving away in the kitchen with the brainless house elves, listening to them talk about cooking and cleaning and Longbottom, it was sickening.  
But, finally, the Dark Lord had sent the signal, in the form of the burning on his forearm.  
Pickles grinned at the Dark Mark on his arm. It contained so much dark magic that he could almost see the snake writhing and twisting under his skin.  
He had shown it to the house elves, and now they fled from him like mice. He could almost taste their fear, and it was delicious.  
And now his Mark was burning. So Pickles set out his ingredients and started baking a cake. The house elves watched him without speaking, but occasionally one of them would rub their hands on the dirty rags they were wearing, or pound their head against the wall. House elves were ridiculous, pathetic little things. Luckily, Pickles would never be a house elf. Not ever again.  
He was a Death Eater now. He belonged to the Dark Lord.  
“Serve it at lunch,” he ordered them, when the cake was done. “Make sure everyone gets a slice.”  
They nodded and cut it into little pieces and walked out.  
Furorem. Anger potion.  
And according to the Dark Lord, something would happen at lunch that would make everyone watching very, very angry.  
()()()  
They stayed like that for a long time.  
What was worrying? Caring? Giving a damn? And why did anyone do it? Harry didn’t know why anyone could care what anyone else thought when Draco’s hair was tickling the back of their neck and sending little shivers up their spine, and when their arms were covered in goosebumps, and when they could feel the warmth from the person they were holding. He was so close, and it was so nice. He didn’t want to move, not ever again.  
“I’m sorry,” Draco whispered, so quietly it was barely audible. His face was buried in Harry’s arm, and Harry could feel his ragged breath and the tickle of his eyelashes. He wanted to tell him that it was okay and he was alright and that he was forgiven, even though he had never done anything wrong. And wasn’t that sappy? Even Hermione would laugh.  
Harry opened his mouth to answer, but before he could the door was flung open, and a red-faced Longbottom had appeared in the doorway. He stared around for a few seconds (seconds that Harry should have used to let go of Draco, but he was still too stunned by what was happening) and then his beady little eyes rested on Harry and Draco.  
“Come on,” Harry said, pulling Draco to his feet. He didn’t spare Longbottom a glance - just ignored him. Denying him the attention he practically lived off of was probably the best way to make him angry, but Harry didn’t care at the moment. He didn’t care about anything.  
Draco practically clung to him, either because he was too shaken to stand, or because he wanted to. Harry tried not to think about it too much.  
But Longbottom was following them again, and he was joined by a group of angry Hufflepuffs, and Weasley was there too. “Death Eater scum!” the same Hufflepuff shouted. He was joined by several cheers and plenty of clapping.  
“Gryffindor traitor!” one of them called out. Longbottom laughed at that. Harry aimed his wand behind him, not even bothering to aim, and shot out a jet of light. Someone screamed. The anger must be fueling his abilities, because he had never cast a nonverbal spell before. Not that he cared.  
Hermione and Pansy caught up to them, followed by more jeers from the crowd. “What the fuck is going on,” Harry hissed. “What the hell are they doing?”  
Hermione bit her lip. She looked like she was about to cry. “The professors are trying to calm them down, but nothing’s working. They think they’re… well, they’re saying Hogwarts would be better without any… well…”  
Pansy groaned and pushed her out of the way. “Without any Death Eater scum. They’re saying that Draco and I are spies, and that we need to be removed,” she hissed, casting a double protection spell around herself and Draco. “Sorry. I can’t do a quadruple. You’re on your own.”  
Draco didn’t protest when he and Harry were separated by the shield, but Harry instantly felt colder. He felt like he could hear the footsteps again, the occasional jet of light hissing past his ear. Even a throbbing pain in his leg that he hadn’t noticed before. Stinging hex.  
“Fine,” he said. “Hermione?”  
Hermione waved her wand, casting a protection spell. “Where should we go?” she whispered.  
Someone ran up and pushed the shield hard, which caused them to crash into the other shield, which crashed into the wall. They must have looked like a line of dominoes.  
“We can’t stay here,” Harry said.  
“Obviously,” Pansy muttered as they turned down another hallway. The horde followed close behind.  
“Will they stop if we leave the castle?” Draco asked. Even his voice sounded paler, somehow. Harry could see that all the warmth had left his face. He looked green, like he was going to be sick all over Pansy.  
Harry realized that he didn’t feel afraid anymore.  
It was like a switch had been pressed. From normal Harry, to the Harry that saves people.  
“Come on,” he said. They all looked at him. “This is ridiculous. Let’s just… look. Out the window. We should just bounce, right?”  
Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Pansy stopped her. “No. Sooner or later, some Ravenclaw is going to use a spell that can destroy our shield. Either that, or they’ll just force us into the lake with the giant squid. We need to get out of Hogwarts and apparate as soon as possible.”  
“You can apparate?” Harry asked.  
“Of course we can apparate,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “Just climb out the fucking window, Potter.”  
Harry opened the window, and the crowd instantly rushed forward. “I’ll push them out!” someone offered. “No, let me!” someone else cried.  
Harry didn’t even have time to climb out before the ground was rushing towards him, coming up for a kiss. Contrary to popular belief, it still hurt, and his head was spinning, quite a lot. He couldn’t see until it was too late, and Draco and Pansy’s shield had already landed on top of theirs, which hurt again.  
But it didn’t matter, because the crowd was disappearing past the window. They were descending the stairs, and that was only one flight and a few courtyards before they would reach them.  
Draco and Pansy staggered to their feet, and Harry and Hermione picked themselves up right after. Harry didn’t like how pale Draco looked. His eyes didn’t seem to be focusing. Pansy noticed this, and she whispered a quick Reficio. Harry didn’t think it would work for long, but Draco at least seemed to be able to stand now.  
“Well, Hermione?” Harry hissed. “Where can we Apparate from?”  
Hermione looked like she was in the middle of panicking, so Harry slapped her in the face. “Hermione!” he shouted. “Where can we Apparate from?”  
Hermione didn’t seem to realize that there was now an ugly red mark on her cheek, or maybe she just didn’t care, given the circumstances. Instead, she raised her hand and pointed, shakily, in the direction of the lake.  
“Across it,” she mouthed, seeming unable to speak.  
Harry breathed in the cold air. It froze its way through his lungs, chilling his bones. His confidence seemed to be leaving as fast as each breath did. The thought of crossing the lake, complete with a giant squid and mermaids, was daunting.  
“Okay,” Harry said, taking a deep breath of frozen air, willing his confidence to return. He tried to walk closer to the lake, but Hermione didn’t move, and the shield prevented them from being far apart. “What now?” He hissed.  
He could hear them now. Far away voices, but very real. If they got there, all they would have to do was hold them down under the water and they would drown. Or feed them to the squid, or let the mermaids eat them for dinner. Perhaps by the Lake was not the best place to be in this situation.  
“Harry, that’s not a good idea,” Hermione said. For once, Harry agreed. “I wish I knew how to cast a patronus,” Hermione muttered. “We could send it to the teachers. Can anyone here cast a patronus?”  
They all shook their heads.  
“Fine,” Hermione said. She started to mutter under her breath. Harry stood back and watched her think impatiently, tapping his foot against the ground, occasionally glancing anxiously at Draco, who was shivering and huddled close to Pansy. Pansy had her eyes closed, almost as if she was meditating… or praying.  
“Professor Hagrid’s hut,” Hermione suddenly said, almost making Harry jump. “We’ll go there and… um… well…”  
If Hermione didn’t know what to do, then it was hopeless.  
How could this be happening? Just a few minutes ago, hadn’t Harry and Draco been together in the hallway? And before that, hadn’t they been eating lunch? Everything had spiraled out of control so fast, and now Harry felt waves of fear, and anxiety, and oh my god, we’re all going to be brutally murdered, rise up into his stomach, threatening to make him either vomit or run away screaming like an idiot, only to be picked off by a well-placed curse.  
Then they could hear footsteps.  
Coming from… the wrong direction.  
And Snape came running from around the corner, looking like a disgruntled bat with long limbs and huge wings. He looked slightly ridiculous, and Harry almost laughed.  
Dumbledore emerged behind him, and Harry sighed in relief. Then was McGonagall, and Flitwick, and the first thought that he had was we’re going to be saved!  
He hugged Hermione, and Pansy hugged Draco, who was still shaking but looking less green already. “We’re going to be okay!” Harry cried into Hermione’s ear. She grinned at him, and he grinned back. They must have looked like lunatics.  
And Draco crumpled to the ground.  
()()()  
Why did this keep happening?  
Draco couldn’t possibly deserve this. Attacked three times by students in his own bloody school. And now they were trapped between a squid infested lake and a horde of angry Hufflepuffs.  
Which was a sentence he would never repeat to anyone, ever.  
And how many panic attacks had he had in the past few days? Too many to count.  
It was as if as soon as he started having them again, anxiety inducing things started happening to him every day of his fucking life.  
He found himself watching Harry, wondering how on earth he could be so eternally brave. What a Gryffindor. It was exhausting. And Draco envied the way that Harry didn’t look the least bit afraid, although he was given away by the way his hands were shaking around his wand, and the way that he was biting his lip. Draco didn’t blame him for that. It was hopeless. If his hands weren’t shaking, that would probably be a bigger problem. Too much bravery was a sign of insanity, after all.  
Draco wondered absently why he wasn’t panicking. Probably the effects of multiple Reficios in a short span of time. Artificial anti-panic was the only thing preventing his breathing and his heartbeat and his thoughts from going out of control. Was that unsettling? Draco thought it should be, but it really wasn’t.  
He realized that Harry was saying something. His voice sounded far away, like he was shouting through a gust of wind that was snatching his words away. Suddenly, Draco felt dizzy. The world was spinning crazily, or maybe Draco was spinning and the world wasn’t. He felt disoriented and slightly sick.  
Pansy noticed, of course, and pulled him close to her. Draco liked that. He felt like a four year old again. He felt like a teddy bear. God, he wanted to sleep. He felt like he was going to fall over, and the world was still spinning.  
Pansy noticed this, too. She pulled out her wand and whispered, “Reficio.”  
But Draco didn’t feel better. Instead, he just felt sleepier. Dizzier. Sicker. He couldn’t hear the conversation at all, now. He didn’t feel afraid, either. In fact, he didn’t really care. Why should it matter if the Hufflepuffs caught them? They were only Hufflepuffs. Slytherins weren’t scared of Hufflepuffs.  
A blurred shape was running toward them. It looked big and black and ugly. The Grim? Perhaps they were dead? How interesting. Death was very nauseating.  
Draco’s knees felt weak now. He really couldn’t stand much longer. He needed to sleep. He could sleep here, probably. It was just grass, it wouldn’t harm him. Worms might crawl into his shoes, but then again, they might not. Yes, falling asleep in the grass sounded like a good idea. Maybe Harry would fall asleep, too. Maybe they would fall asleep together.  
Hmm. Harry. Draco could speak, couldn’t he? Should he tell Harry how he felt? Maybe. It was now or never, after all. Now, when he didn’t care about anything and he couldn’t even hear because of the ringing in his ears, or never. Because normally he would be too scared to even talk to Harry, because of the waves of anxiety and the black tunnels and the shaking hands and the not breathing. And if he didn’t do it now, he might just die in the next few seconds. This numbness certainly wasn’t normal. Maybe he was dying.  
Draco opened his mouth, but his strength failed before he could speak, and he fell to the ground in a heap. It didn’t hurt. In fact, he didn’t even feel it. He felt numb. He couldn’t see, because everything had already gone black. He must be asleep. Right?  
Well, he might as well say it. Wouldn’t that be funny when he woke up.  
“I bloody love you, Potter,” Draco whispered.  
He didn’t even hear his own words.  
()()()  
“I bloody love you, Potter,” Draco whispered as he fell to the ground.  
Harry barely heard him, because then Draco’s eyes closed and his chest wasn’t moving up and down like it should, and Harry started to panic. The bravery disappeared in an instant, the confidence vanished with it. Someone stabbed a knife right into Harry’s stomach and skewered each butterfly, one by one. All Harry could do was stand there uselessly and silently freak out.  
Snape pushed them aside, ordered Pansy to dismantle the shield, and kneeled by Draco, putting the back of his hand above his mouth. “He’s breathing,” he muttered. “Barely, but breathing.” He ran a hand through his greasy hair and raised his wand, holding it over Draco’s body.  
“Get away from him!” Harry shouted, before he could even think. “Don’t touch him!” Almost immediately after he said it, he realized how foolish it was. His animosity with Snape had no place here, not when Draco was motionless on the ground.  
Hermione put her hand on Harry’s arm, holding him back with a simple touch. “Harry,” she said, quietly, and shook her head.  
Snape looked at Harry from blank, unreadable eyes. Dark eyes. Harry swallowed nervously, but stepped back. It didn’t matter - he couldn’t have gotten to Snape anyway, not with the protective shield around them, but Snape understood, and raised his wand over Draco again.  
Dumbledore and the rest were trying to calm down the angry mob of students that had just arrived. They were all yelling and throwing curses and hexes. As Harry watched, a chunk of Dumbledore’s beard was burnt off. Harry felt a wave of anger overtake him. How dare they? He wanted to hex each and every one of them into oblivion.  
Harry saw Anastasia, standing next to Weasley with her wand in the air shooting out sparks. She was yelling as loudly as the rest.  
He imagined his fist heading straight for her face and her nose breaking into a million pieces and blood pouring out like a waterfall. He imagined ripping her glasses off and mangling them, crunching them beneath his feet until there was nothing left but tiny little crimson shards of glass.  
He didn’t feel better. Not even a little bit.  
But Dumbledore now had a neat little pile of wands on the ground in front of him, and everyone in the mob was sprawled on the ground, fast asleep. The shield disappeared, and Harry ignored everyone watching to kneel at Draco’s side. His face was pasty white, his lips were blue with the cold. Harry hadn’t even noticed, but snow was falling now. Little flakes were in Draco’s hair and on his face. Harry brushed them away, feeling tears finally threatening to fall.  
“I love you too,” Harry whispered, so quietly that no one else could hear. Maybe Draco would hear him. Most likely, he wouldn’t.  
He looked back to see that Snape was watching him with something like emotion in his eyes, and Hermione was openly crying. Pansy still had her eyes closed, but Harry could see her fists were clenching and unclenching over and over again.  
Draco didn’t move.  
()()()  
Pickles watched from the door of the great hall. He was half hidden behind it, but if someone saw him, it really wouldn’t matter. People were much too lenient on house elves here. He would probably just be ignored.  
“Two more minutes,” Pickles said, watching the seconds tick by on the clock.  
A classic Furorem potion took fifteen minutes to spread through the victim’s entire body. Only then would they begin to feel the effects.  
The cake had been handed out thirteen minutes ago.  
Pickles watched the Gryffindor table. Those filthy traitors sitting there - he wanted to bash their heads in. How dare they betray the Dark Lord? It was disgusting. Pickles shuddered when the Malfoy boy’s ugly, pointed face turned towards him. And then he ducked out of sight, because there was a fraction of a chance that he would be recognized, and he wasn’t about to risk disappointing the Dark Lord.  
One minute.  
And then the owl swooped in through the window and dropped the Howler, and Pickles raised his wand and cast Vigilia, which would store whatever Pickles saw next in the wand. That way, the Dark Lord could see it too.  
And the Malfoy boy walked out like a coward.  
Fifty seconds.  
“DRACO!” shouted the letter, and Pickles started to laugh. A wheezy, hoarse laugh.  
Forty-five seconds.  
But already, people were laughing and people were shouting, and a few people were getting up and throwing things.  
That was strange. The potion couldn’t work until the fifteen minutes were up. Anything before that was… just anger. Natural, untainted anger.  
Pickles smiled. So the traitors were already despised at Hogwarts. That would make his job much easier.  
Five seconds.  
The Howler yelled and yelled, and Pickles watched as matching looks of hatred settled over their faces. A quiet girl with glasses who was sitting at the Gryffindor table suddenly turned and glared at the girl traitor. A boy with flaming red hair started to laugh.  
Pickles smirked. He really did bake a good cake.  
()()()  
Voldemort was standing in the center of the garden, eyes tightly closed, a haze of magic swirling around him. Whenever Lucius got too close, he could feel it. It would invade his mind, making him feel empty and open, like a book Voldemort could pick up and read. So Lucius stayed at a respectful distance, with his eyes on the ground and a glass of water in his hand.  
The Dark Lord had been standing there for three days, feeling every emotion that Longbottom had, every word, every thought. He said that it was easy, and that it hadn’t been this easy last time.  
Lucius didn’t dare ask what he meant.  
“Water, my lord?’ Lucius asked when he felt the Dark Lord’s eyes on him, unsure of what else to say. Those snake-like eyes seemed to pierce into his very soul. Lucius shifted uncomfortably, and his flowing robes shifted as well.  
“Nervous, Lucius?” the Dark Lord asked.  
“Never, my lord,” Lucius lied.  
The Dark Lord smiled, which was eerie and looked so very wrong. He threw back his hood and let the sun reach his pale, sickly skin. “Something has happened, Lucius. The boy is frightened. A pathetic, wormy fear.”  
Lucius waited for the Dark Lord to elaborate. He was very fond of dramatic pauses, but he could never resist the sound of his own voice for long.  
“Lucius, tell me, has your son arrived yet?” the Dark Lord asked with a sneer.  
Lucius licked his lips. They were dry and cracking because of the wind blowing through the garden. The tips of his fingers were numb, his face felt like a block of ice. The cold seemed to make his mind foggier, his thinking slower. But the Dark Lord was not affected in the least, and if Lucius was not careful, he would say something wrong.  
“No, my lord,” Lucius said, with just a hint of bitterness and disgust. “He has not.”  
It was embarrassing. Every son or daughter of every Death Eater had returned…. Except for his. His son was a traitor. A coward. A disgrace to the family name.  
If Lucius ever saw him again, he would kill him on sight. Respect was precious, and Lucius had lost much respect because of his son. He deserved to be punished.  
“How… regrettable,” the Dark Lord said, taking his eyes off of Lucius at last and closing them again. Lucius let out a breath that he didn’t realize he had been holding.  
The Dark Lord ran his tongue over his teeth, slowly, as if he was tasting something. He clenched his fists and the air cracked with a sound like a Muggle gun going off. It sizzled and sparkled. Lucius’s hair stood on end and he felt little needles of electricity sink into his skin. He had to fight hard to keep any reactions from rising to the surface.  
“I can see him,” the Dark Lord said. One of those eerie smiles passed over his face like a ghost, and in an instant it was gone. “Unconscious. On the ground. Dirt in his hair. He looks like a common house elf,” the Dark Lord said, savoring each word, enjoying the way that they scratched Lucius’s skin, colored his face, stabbed him with electricity. Lucius felt that red hot shame burning his eyes.  
“I apologize that you had to witness that, my lord. It is my deepest regret that…”  
“Yes, yes, I know,” the Dark Lord said impatiently. “I do not blame you, Lucius. You said it yourself. Narcissa treated the boy too kindly, he did not learn. You brought him up well. I saw the way you treated him, and I approved of it. No, I do not blame you, Lucius.”  
The Dark Lord opened his eyes, and they bored holes in Lucius’ skull. Lucius nodded once, and the Dark Lord closed his eyes again.  
Thank god. They were like little yellow suns. If Lucius looked at them for too long, he would go blind.  
“Before, I could only see through the eyes of the chosen one,” the Dark Lord said. “But now, I can see into anyone’s mind. You don’t understand, Lucius. I can see through your eyes. I know what you feel. No one can hide from me.”  
Suddenly, the garden felt colder. Lucius had to struggle to contain his reaction to what the Dark Lord had said. Especially because the reaction was fear.  
The Dark Lord smirked, eyes still closed. “Does that scare you, Lucius?”  
Lucius tried to keep his mind blank, but little ripples of fear rose to the surface. Suddenly, Lucius gasped when something ripped into his mind and moved among the ripples. The magic was invading his mind, but this time it was so, so much worse.  
“It scares you,” the Dark Lord said. “Good. It should.”  
Then the invading presence was gone, and Lucius’s mind was his own again. At least, he thought it was. He focused on staring at his shoes.  
The Dark Lord turned so that he was facing away from Lucius, who raised his head only enough to see the Dark Lord’s boots. “The boy is frantic. The worry, the pathetic concern. It disgusts me to feel such a primitive emotion, even if it is from someone else’s mind.”  
Lucius swallowed. “Which boy is that, my lord?”  
“The Potter boy. It seems that he and your son have developed some kind of relationship. How vile. Yes… if I just go a bit deeper…”  
The air cracked and sizzled like a burning flame.  
“Sorrow. Fear. And… oh, that’s just hilarious.”  
The Dark Lord turned, and this time his eyes were open. Lucius felt naked and exposed in front of those eyes.  
“Love, Lucius. There’s no mistaking it. Potter feels love for your son.”  
The Dark Lord laughed.  
Shrill, like nails on a chalkboard.  
Biting, leaving teeth marks gouged into his skin.  
Cold as ice.  
()()()  
When Anastasia woke up, she didn’t know where she was.  
All that she could see was darkness. Darkness pressing down on her eyelids, suffocating her. Anastasia’s eyes shot open, but there was no difference. She almost couldn’t tell if her eyes were open or closed. It didn’t matter either way.  
She was lying down on some sort of stone surface. It was cold, and it froze her fingertips. Where could she be? Some completely dark room in Hogwarts? Maybe the dungeons? But Stasia didn’t remember seeing anywhere this dark. And she had been outside just a second ago. How had she gotten here?  
Oh, right. Outside. And… and she had been holding a wand. Stasia realized that she had been part of the mob that was attacking Draco and Pansy. Why would she do that? But she couldn’t deny the memories, raw and burning in her mind. The fiery pain in the chest, the voices, the screaming and the laughing beside her and the way that Weasley leered down at her from above. She pushed those aside. Getting out of here was more important. She would deal with everything else later.  
She felt around for her wand. Pocket? No. Maybe it had fallen on the ground beside her? She moved her hands to feel the ground around her, and felt her heart jump into her throat. Her hand went right through where the ground should be, waving around uselessly. There was nothing beside her but empty air.  
Anastasia felt little prickles of panic starting to creep up her throat. She was going to throw up.  
Acrophobia. Fear of heights.  
No, don’t think about that. But Stasia felt the dizziness creeping up on her, and the urge to scream and scream until someone could come and get her down.  
Stasia held very still, trying not to move. If she moved, she would fall. She didn’t know how long the fall would be, but it was dark and she couldn’t see and her brain was playing games with her and she was alone. She was panicking, staring up at nothing and breathing faster and faster, and trying not to, because one wrong move would make her fall and fall and fall…  
Stasia stared at the empty dark and took a deep breath. Deep breath. Just breathe. Breathing is easy. She had been breathing for her whole life. Just breathe. What could be simpler?  
Right at that moment, she could think of plenty of things.  
And then something cut through the darkness, making it bleed bright orange. It hurt her eyes, but she couldn’t close them because she was transfixed by the light. It was drawing her in. It was irresistible. And so Stasia stood up, without wobbling, without even thinking. She had to stand. Of course she did. Because it got her closer to the beautiful orange light, hovering in the darkness ahead of her. She still couldn’t see anything around her, the light wasn’t bright enough. But she had to follow it.  
So Stasia began to walk.  
She followed it through the pitch black, never trying to see where she was going. Why did it matter? The light would guide her. She wouldn’t fall. She flung her arms out to either side of her when the path got narrower. She didn’t know how she knew that it was narrower, but she knew that she did. She was balancing on a tightrope, following the light.  
Then it got closer.  
Closer, closer. It was going to eat her. Anastasia smiled, widely. She pushed her glasses up on her nose and started to laugh. She knew that she sounded crazy, but she was just so happy. The light was going to eat her! What could be better?  
Anastasia grinned as it drew nearer. Like a floating neon monster. She could see teeth, and the shape of a face, and… robes? Anastasia’s grin faded slightly. The monster landed on the tightrope in front of her, and Stasia wobbled. The panic returned in a spike that was driven directly to the chest, making her stagger backwards. The monster was grinning now. The monster was laughing now. It was fiery and red-hot, and now Stasia could see the tightrope in front of her and the chasm below. She wavered dangerously, and the panic rose in waves.  
And the creature came closer. She knew what it was now. And suddenly everything started to make sense. A morbid, warped sort of sense, of course. Because this was a morbid, warped place, and he had a morbid, warped sense of humor.  
She had always known. Of course she had.  
Just never realized it.  
And it shook her bones into pieces. It made her wobble, but she knew that she would never fall here. He had made sure of that. He needed her just terrified enough to manipulate.  
Not this time.  
But those were empty words. He would always be stronger. She was just a weak little girl.  
“Go to hell,” Anastasia whispered, woodenly. Automatically. She was a robot even when she was trying to be brave. Even when she tried to rebel.  
And Voldemort laughed. His laughter scraped at her ears, it scratched at her face, it made the blood flow. Anastasia wiped it away from her eyes so that she could see. He was still glowing, but now he was glowing green.  
He loved green.  
“Did I ever tell you how much I love this?” he asked in his nasal, high-pitched voice that shattered her bones just because it could.  
Because why not? It’s a dream. It won’t hurt her. But the feeling of broken pieces of leg and arm, and the limpness and the uselessness of her fingers, made Stasia panic even more.  
“Once or twice,” Stasia said. Her voice sounded hollow. He could probably tell. He could tell that even as she tried to resist, it was working. Hell, it had already worked.  
Voldemort came closer, and he was standing right in front of her, and placed his slimy, dead hands on her shoulders. Anastasia would have shuddered if she could have moved, but his skin was fiery and it set her alight like a candle.  
“Perfect. You do realize how easy this is, don’t you? It’s hilarious.”  
Anastasia nodded, smiling vaguely.  
Voldemort smiled. He looked remarkably like a snake. Then he leaned closer, and she could feel his breath on her neck and it was cold, and he whispered in a voice that sent chills down her spine.  
“Treacle tart.”  
And Anastasia was back where she belonged. On the grass by the lake, waking up from a deep sleep. The sun glared into her eyes. Her head was swimming in circles. Anastasia shook her head to shake away the fog of sleep.  
A few fragments of a dream came to the surface.  
Darkness. Fire. A monster.  
And then what had happened earlier came rushing back. Pointing her wand and yelling, screaming, laughing. The green lights and the look in Harry’s eyes when he saw her…  
She had to apologize. Had to make him understand.  
Maybe she could make him some treacle tart.  
Harry loved treacle tart.  
()()()  
As soon as Anastasia started to get up, Harry was walking in her direction. His fists were clenched, his eyes were cold. She would get what she deserved. And she deserved plenty. Stupid little bitch. How dare she? Attacking Draco and Pansy and Hermione and me.  
She sat up, bleary eyed and messy hair. She shook her head a little to clear it, and then she saw him. Her eyes widened and she backed away…  
And that reminded Harry of Draco, sitting on the table during detention, and the way that Harry had pounded his fists and shouted at him, and the way that Draco had backed away with fear in his eyes…  
And as hard as he tried, he couldn’t get the anger to return, and he couldn’t get the image out of his head.  
“Why did you do it?” he asked. He sounded tired. He sounded sad. He was disappointed. Anastasia flinched. Harry turned, and saw that Hermione was watching. The rest were huddled over Draco, but Hermione was watching.  
Harry should be with Draco. And he would be. Just as soon as he settled this.  
“Why?” he asked again. He knelt down so that he they were eye to eye, and her eyes were watering and little tears were slipping down her face. Harry realized that his eyes were burning, and his cheeks were wet, too. He hadn’t even noticed.  
Anastasia opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her eyes dropped to the ground and she shook her head, shakily, trembling. She tried to speak but all that came out was a tear-filled choke, and then she started to sob.  
Harry grabbed her hands and squeezed them, just enough to hurt. “Why?” he hissed through gritted teeth, staring at her, begging her for a reason. She’d said she loved him. Had she been lying the whole time?  
And why should Harry care? Why should he give a damn if she had a reason or not? They weren’t friends. Not anymore. He should assume the worst, he should assume that whatever she said was a lie.  
But Harry wanted to believe that she had a reason. He didn’t want to think that everyone in Hogwarts hated them, that for the smallest of reasons they would rise up and attack them.  
Even though they just had.  
Did that make sense?  
Maybe.  
But Anastasia couldn’t speak. She was just crying. Harry stared at her for a few more seconds until he dropped her hands. They fell uselessly into the grass. He stood, looking down at her. Her shoulders were shaking and her face was buried in her knees.  
Then he walked away.  
“How is he?” Harry asked, tapping Hermione on the shoulder. She had been staring at Anastasia with a look in her eyes… pity. That’s what it was. Harry tried to ignore it and focus on Draco. Anastasia didn’t matter. Not anymore.  
“He won’t wake up,” Snape said.  
Harry felt a jolt run through his body.  
Pomfrey was here now, kneeling over Draco with several bottles of potion on the ground beside her. She turned around to meet Harry’s eyes, and Harry could see the worry in the mess of her hair, the lines in her face, the set of her jaw. “He was hit by several stinging hexes,” she said, counting on her fingers. “He probably experienced some serious mental trauma, as well. An experience like that is enough to…”  
She didn’t finish the sentence.  
“Aside from that, it seems that he was put under at least five Reficio spells in a very short amount of time. Probably less than fifteen minutes. That is the most likely reason that he… won’t wake up.”  
Pansy was biting her lip. Harry could see a thin trail of blood leading from her lip down to her chin. “That was all my fault,” she whispered. “He was shaking, so I thought… I thought I could help him…” she buried her face in her hands, and Hermione walked over to hug her tightly.  
Pomfrey waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, no, darling. It’s not your fault. You were only trying to help him. And… there shouldn’t be any lasting effects. He will wake up in about an hour. Just be more careful next time, all right?”  
Pansy pulled away from Hermione and nodded, looking absolutely miserable.  
“Potter, Granger, Parkinson,” Snape said. “You three should return to your dorms. The adults can take it from here.”  
Harry felt a wave of distaste rise up in his stomach, and he wanted to say something sarcastic and extremely rude to Snape. But, instead, he realized that he was probably right. They wouldn’t be much help, and Harry was so tired. Every bone felt like it weighed as much as a hippogriff.  
So Harry looked at Draco, who was lying motionless on the ground. Dried blood lined his forehead and several pieces of white-blonde hair. His lips were slightly parted, but by the way Pomfrey was holding her wand over his face, he must not be taking in very much air. He looked like a ghost, so pale and silent.  
It was strange to see someone cold and motionless like that. It felt wrong. Harry felt a chilling feeling in his spine.  
And then he remembered.  
He said he loved me.  
Why did he say he loved me?  
And why did I say it back?  
Harry looked at Draco. The same boy who had taunted him for years, the same person who had pushed him into walls and hexed him from across the room.  
The same boy that he had kissed in first year.  
And the same one who had cried during detention, and had laughed at Hogsmeade, and who smiled whenever Harry looked his way.  
But right now, all of that was too complicated. So Harry focused on giving Hermione a hug, and sighing into her neck and breathing in the scent of her hair shampoo. Vanilla. It made him feel better. And then he hugged Pansy, and she didn’t seem to be able to let go.  
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.  
“Why?” Harry asked into her hair. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”  
Pansy pulled away. Tears were still streaking across her cheeks in ribbons, but now there was a determination in her eyes. “No,” she said. “No. I… I’m just going to stay here. You go on.”  
She untangled herself from his arms and walked over by Snape. Harry saw her wiping her eyes on her sleeve.  
Harry and Hermione walked, hand in hand, back into the castle.  
A house elf was waddling by, muttering something to itself. Harry stopped it by clearing his throat, and the house elf glared at him. Harry ignored it. “Two sandwiches to the Gryffindor dormitory, please.”  
The house elf nodded stiffly and waddled away.  
He wasn’t hungry, but they hadn’t eaten any lunch. It felt right to eat. It felt normal.  
There were still some people inside. People who hadn’t attacked them. Harry was a bit confused, because they seemed like a random selection of people. Some Hufflepuffs were still inside, and Harry saw one of MacMillan’s friends. Dean was standing near the wall by Luna. And, strangest of all… Longbottom was still inside. Looking extremely uncomfortable and definitely brooding, but still inside.  
But no one spoke when they entered. No one moved, except for Luna. She waved at them until a Ravenclaw elbowed her in the side and she stopped.  
No one followed them up the stairs.  
Their sandwiches were on the table. Harry and Hermione sat on opposite sides of it, but neither of them touched the food. Hermione was staring at the table, lost in thought. Her shoulders were stiff and her lips were tightly closed. She looked almost like a statue, aside from the rising and falling of her chest as she breathed.  
“He said he loved me,” Harry said, breaking the fragile silence.  
Hermione nodded numbly. She looked up then, and their eyes met.  
“I said I loved him, too,” Harry said, searching her eyes for a hint of what she was thinking. But she was staring at him like he was an arithmancy problem, and Harry had the feeling that she was searching his eyes, too.  
She dropped her gaze to the sandwich on the table. She started pulling it apart, separating the bread and the meat and the cheese into neat little piles. Then she picked up a piece of lettuce and started shredding it into pieces.  
Harry could smell it, and the smell made him want to throw up. Just the thought of eating was nauseating. Especially with the anxiety, and the thoughts firing off in his head like gunshots, and the worry that churned in his stomach.  
“Do you?” Hermione asked. Harry heard a faint tearing sound as a strip of lettuce was ripped apart and dropped onto the plate. Hermione picked up another one and crushed it in her hand. She didn’t look at him, and Harry was grateful for that. Sometimes, he felt like she could read his thoughts.  
Harry tried not to think too hard. It was an easy question, after all. And an easy answer to give.  
(Yes.)  
No.  
Of course he didn’t.  
He liked Draco. Draco was his friend. Draco had to be his friend. It was inevitable. They had been through too much together to still keep up the stupid charade. They had never really been enemies, either. Not after first year.  
But love? No. Love was reserved for someone special, someone close. Someone Harry could share everything with, and someone who would share everything with Harry.  
At least, that was what he had always imagined it to be.  
Perhaps it was a bit naive.  
But how would Harry know? He had never loved anyone before.  
So he sighed and said, “No,” and then there was no sound except for something being absently ripped into pieces. Hermione had moved onto the slices of bread now. She had picked off the crusts, and was now tearing them into strips.  
There was something hidden in the depths of Harry’s mind. A little voice, nagging at him, saying something Harry would never admit to anyone else.  
But you kissed him in first year.  
And you wouldn’t mind doing it again, would you?  
Ha. That was funny.  
As if that would ever happen.  
And why should it? Sure, after first year, Harry had been fixated on Draco. He couldn’t understand why everything had changed so fast, and now they were supposed to be enemies. But eventually, he had gotten over that. He couldn’t feel that way about Draco anymore.  
It would never happen.  
But he said he loves you.  
And that was the problem. Harry had gotten so used to the fact that Draco would never like him back…  
Maybe he was wrong.  
Harry raised his head from his arms, and found that Hermione was already watching him. Their eyes met.  
“No,” Harry said. “But I think I could.”  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: memories, swimming, and mangled sandwiches.  
> Please review! I love to hear what you think.


	15. Fourteen - This Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably update really sporadically and frequently for a while until I've caught up with what I've posted on FF.Net. So you can expect a lot of chapters! And that's great for me, because these seem really boring in comparison to what I'm writing now... (probably because I haven't read these in a looong time) and I can't wait for you to see what I've got in store for you! I'm excited to see what you think.  
> But here's the A/N I wrote back in OCTOBER when I finished this chapter:   
> I kind of sort of really really like this chapter :)  
> I think it’s good. I think it’s sad. I think it gives me all the feels.  
> I hope you feel the same way :) If you do, then please review.

Fourteen.  
This Time.  
-  
()()()  
Minerva McGonagall could not believe this.  
First, the Potter boy and the Malfoy boy had attacked each other during DADA class.  
Then, the Malfoy boy had fainted when Albus was trying to assign them a punishment.  
After that, the Slytherins had attacked Malfoy and Parkinson, who had been saved by Potter. And then the Slytherins had proceeded to escape out of a window.  
And now, Parkinson, Granger, Potter, and Malfoy had been attacked by fifty students who had followed them out of the castle and cornered them by the lake.  
Apparently, those students had been given a Furoren potion, so there was another person within Hogwarts who wanted to murder those poor children, and no one knew who it could be.  
And now the Malfoy bow was unconscious.  
To top it all off, Minerva had tied her bun too tightly, and now she had a massive headache. She had also spent at least twenty minutes watching Pomfrey and Snape stare at each other. All in all, Minerva wished that the possibility of this situation had been mentioned in her job description. If it had, she would never have taken the job. She could be a professor at Durmstrang right now, just teaching her class, without any worries or headaches to stress her out, and without any unconscious students lying in the snow in front of her.  
“What the hell is going on?” Minerva asked aloud.  
“Tell me about it,” the Parkinson girl drawled from beside her. She was tying up her red hair and chewing loudly on a piece of transfigured gum. She looked completely at ease, as if she didn’t have a care in the world.  
Minerva was astounded. How could she be so unconcerned at a time like this?  
“Merlin help me,” Minerva whispered.  
The Parkinson girl snorted. She had finished doing her hair, and now she was looking at her nails, which were a deep shade of blood red. “As if that ever works,” she said.  
“Excuse me?” Minerva said, mildly outraged. Of course asking Merlin for help didn’t work, he was long-dead. But what did this girl think she was doing, talking that way to a professor?  
“What you should do,” the Parkinson girl said, watching Minerva now. “Is go inside and help the students who are still in there. The other professors are watching over the fifty unconscious students, and no one knows where the hell Dumbledore is. I’m sure everyone is confused, and they probably want to know what is going on.”  
Minerva was taken aback. For one, she didn’t take advice from students. But on the other hand, it really was rather good advice.  
“Um,” she said, quite stupidly. Her headache was pounding at her skull, and she couldn’t think.  
“And for god’s sake, untie your hair! It’s a wonder you can even think straight. I can see your hair follicles screaming in agony,” the Parkinson girl said. Her own hair was up in a very messy bun that looked extremely good on her. She smirked when she caught Minerva looking. “Just take it out!” she said. “It’s not that hard, really.”  
But it was.  
Minerva hadn’t worn her hair down in forty years.  
Never.  
Not since she became a professor at Hogwarts. She had a reputation to maintain, as the stern, firm professor. Otherwise… would anyone respect her?  
But now wasn’t the time for argument.  
So Minerva slowly, staring at the sky, reached her hands up to the elastic band that tied her bun in place. She unraveled it, and her hair fell down to her shoulders. Dark brown, with streaks of silver running through like rivers.  
Parkinson stared.  
Minerva nodded at her, once, and walked past her to fling open the doors of Hogwarts and face the students waiting there.  
()()()  
“Furorem potion,” Pomfrey said with a sigh. She had been walking from unconscious student to unconscious student, casting spells which had all come back with the same results. Mostly.  
Pomfrey moved to the next sleeping student, Anastasia Plum. The yellow lights spread out from her wand and landed on the girl’s hair and forehead and glasses. They flickered for an instant, and then they glowed green.  
“Furorem potion,” Severus said. “That’s thirty-two out of thirty-eight.” He added another mark on the parchment he was holding.  
Pomfrey nodded. Beads of sweat had gathered on her hair line. She hadn’t smiled in hours. That was a good thing. This wasn’t the time for smiling. But still, it seemed unnatural. Severus had thought that Pomfrey was a master at the fake, everything-will-be-perfectly-fine smile. After being a nurse for fifteen years, she had gotten exceptionally good at it. But now, she didn’t seem to be able to manage it. Every time she held her wand over another student, her shoulders seemed to droop lower and her eyes seemed to grow darker, and sadder.  
Severus, however, thought that Furorem potion was a wonderful explanation, when compared to the alternative.  
The alternative being that at least thirty-eight students had attacked Potter, Granger, Malfoy and Parkinson out of their own free will. Because of their own anger and hatred. And, luckily, that wasn’t the case.  
But there was still the problem of those six that hadn’t digested any potion.  
And there was the bigger problem of who had given them the potion in the first place, and how they had given it to them. Technically, it could have been a version of the potion that would delay its effects. And that meant that it could have been administered at any time, in any place. Which would make it a million times harder to track down the culprit.  
However, Severus’s best guess what that the potion had been added to some food that had been served in the great hall. Which narrowed it down, but not by much.  
At least we know it wasn’t a house elf. They’re in service to the school, so it would be impossible.  
But if not a house elf, then who?  
Severus had sent Flitwick to ask the house elves if anyone had visited the kitchens in the past few days. Perhaps someone had simply walked in and added the potion, but that was unlikely. Whoever it was had probably snuck in during the night.  
But the kitchens were locked at night.  
Severus sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had an awful headache. And he kept on seeing the Potter boy’s eyes, burning in the back of his mind. Full of some form of pure hatred that Severus had never expected to see on the face of a child.  
Get away from him.  
Don’t touch him!  
And Severus realized, dimly, that it wasn’t the Potter boy’s voice he was hearing, but Lily’s, back when it was strong and full of life, and when it made him feel weak in the knees. And it wasn’t the boy’s eyes that he was seeing, but Lily’s. Green and flashing, but smiling at him.  
Oh, how he missed those eyes.  
And now those eyes were turning away, and Lily was screaming, screaming at the top of her lungs. Severus saw himself suspended several feet above the ground and felt that hot burning from behind his eyes, the burning that made him feel sick. He tried desperately not to look at her, but the shame and the humiliation rose up in waves.  
Oh god. Severus needed to get a pensieve.  
James Potter was sneering at him, and suddenly Severus was fifteen again, and the hatred and the humiliation was stabbing him with nothing at all, but Severus swore it would leave a mark. This memory was burning into his skin and it hurt.  
It would leave scars.  
There was a haze swimming around his vision, and all he could see was Potter’s leering face and Black’s laughter ringing in his ears. His mouth still tasted like soap.  
He was going to vomit.  
And Severus would never forget when the cold wind cut through to his legs, and everyone started laughing and laughing, and that was why Severus always wore long black robes.  
And then Lily started screaming louder. “Get away from him! Don’t touch him!” she screamed.  
Potter sighed, “Look at him. So pitiful, he needs help to put his pants back on.”  
And Severus fell to the ground. He scrambled to his feet, clutching his robes and crying. Lily started to walk towards him, with that sadness in her eyes that Severus would never see again…  
Severus closed his eyes, but the memories cut through. Like a blade. Leaving scars.  
“I don’t need help from filthy little Mudbloods like her!”  
It rang through his head like a bell, echoing off the sides of his skull. He was going to throw up.  
The sadness disappeared. It was replaced by a coldness that left Severus breathless, gasping for air. And then by an emptiness, a vacancy that made Severus want to cry, again.  
“Tortured to insanity,” the nurse had told him.  
And when Severus saw her, he had decided that death would have been a better fate for her. For Lily, who was always so strong and so full of life. Now those green eyes could have been beads in the eyes of a doll. The way she smiled and shook his hand as if they were meeting for the first time...  
The eyes changed again. They were his eyes. The Potter boy’s eyes. Fiery and angry. Not empty, not by a long shot.  
Well, Severus certainly got the message.  
“I will do better this time,” Severus whispered.  
A single tear had fallen to his cheek. Severus wiped it away.  
“Severus?” Pomfrey asked, and he was back, standing in the grass, with all the sleeping students around him. “Are you alright?”  
Severus straightened up. “Yes, of course, Poppy.”  
Pomfrey nodded. Of course she did, because if Severus wanted to look alright, he would. She wouldn’t know that anything was wrong, or that anything had changed. “Okay then,” she said. “Thirty-three of thirty-eight.”  
Severus added a mark to his paper.  
()()()  
It was like he was swimming.  
Draco hated swimming.  
And it was like his mind was the water.  
Did that make any sense?  
Probably not. He was unconscious, after all. In Draco’s experience, people didn’t make much sense when they were unconscious. Or any sense, for that matter.  
Anyway, back to the swimming.  
It was the strangest thing. Draco was swimming through a narrow trail of water, in the pitch dark. And the water was running forward, so Draco followed the current. He hardly had to try, it just led him onward into the darkness.  
Well, not entirely darkness. There was a light up ahead. The faintest of orange lights, glittering and silent, but Draco had the strangest feeling that he was meant to follow it.  
But he didn’t get very far.  
Everything slipped out from underneath him, and his stomach leapt into his throat. He didn’t know if he was falling, or if he was rocketing into the air, or if it mattered. Either way, everything was spinning and he was screaming, but he couldn’t see a thing aside from the whirling of the glittering orange light in the distance, which only made him feel sicker.  
Draco felt his stomach starting to convulse and the taste of acid on his tongue. Little tears leaked out of his eyes as he retched into empty air, and it was painful, and he was still retching but nothing was coming out aside from the pain shooting through his entire body, leaving his arms shaking. He coughed and coughed and it burned his throat, which was ragged and torn into pieces.  
Draco curled up into himself, arms around his knees. He wasn’t falling anymore, not really. Now he was closer to floating, floating through empty air.  
The orange light was gone.  
Draco was completely alone, in pitch darkness. It suddenly seemed like it was closing in on him, smothering him like a blanket. Draco couldn’t breathe.  
“Help…” he was able to choke out, before he was suffocated in panic.  
()()()  
“Poppy?” Dumbledore walked up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. Severus watched from a distance, taking in the scene around him as if he hadn’t truly seen it before.  
Students, just waking up, rubbing their eyes, examining cuts and scratches that they didn’t remember getting.  
The Malfoy boy, unconscious on the ground.  
The snow, falling softly, layering everything in a coat of sparkling frost.  
Severus rubbed the bridge of his nose again. His head was pounding. He wished Poppy would let him leave just for a moment to get a healing potion.  
“Yes?” Poppy answered. God, she looked stressed. Severus would have felt bad for her if he wasn’t sure that he was faring far worse. At least she didn’t have to deal with resurfacing memories of Lily Potter’s face.  
“The boy is speaking, apparently. And the rest of them are waking up,” Dumbledore gestured at the bleary eyes students sitting in the grass.  
“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Poppy said, rather dryly.  
Was that sarcasm?  
Severus was impressed.  
But there would be time for that later. For now, Severus focused on glancing over at the Malfoy boy, who was… shaking?  
“What is going on, Albus?” Severus asked, hurrying to the boy’s side. Poppy followed him, and immediately kneeled on the grass next to him. “Why is he shaking like that?”  
Dumbledore shook his head. “Surely, Severus, you cannot expect me to know the answer to all of life’s problems. Now, if you will excuse me, I have someone I need to check up on.”  
Severus hoped that Dumbledore would get the message of pure hatred that he was trying to send through his eyes, but he seemed unbothered. Which infuriated Severus. He was the bloody headmaster! He should be taking care of his students, not checking up on… who the hell knows!  
Perhaps old age had finally gotten to him. Perhaps he should have stepped down a long, long time ago.  
Or now. That was fine as well.  
If looks could kill, Dumbledore would drop dead as he walked away.  
But right now, that was not his main concern. Right now, his main concern was the boy, pale as ashes, who was lying on the ground shaking uncontrollably. Severus would have thought he was shivering from the cold if his eyes weren’t closed and sweat wasn’t running down from his forehead.  
Poppy sighed. “Too many bloody Reficios. I’ll see what I can do.”  
Reficio? The Reficio spell?  
Why would Malfoy need that?  
Severus raised an eyebrow, but didn’t interrupt. It wasn’t a good idea to interrupt a healer at work. And Poppy was an exceptional healer. In an instant, she had conjured up a spiral of blue and green lights which were swarming around the boy like fireflies. A few landed on his skin, and Poppy nodded and smiled a few times, but frowned many more.  
Finally, she sighed, waving her wand and making the lights disappear. “He’ll be alright,” she said. “And…” she started rummaging around in her bag full of potions and ingredients. “This should wake him up,” she said, holding up a small bottle full of a bright purple potion.  
“Healing potion?” Severus asked. “But… you do know that those are reserved for the tournament, right? Dumbledore will…”  
“I could care less what he thinks,” Poppy whispered under her breath, just loud enough for Severus to hear, and no one else. She didn’t turn to look at him, which was a good thing, because Severus couldn’t contain the surprise that was plastered onto his face. Embarrassing. He quickly pulled his mask back on.  
“Severus?” Poppy asked.  
Severus raised an eyebrow, wondering what she was going to ask. “Yes?”  
“You may go check on the other students now,” Poppy said, smiling uncertainly.  
Had he been staring?  
Dear god, Severus, get a hold of yourself!  
Severus nodded curtly and turned, with a swish of his robes, towards the students who were just getting up. He stalked menacingly in their direction. Perhaps menacing was not the best way to greet students who had just been given a Furorem potion that caused them to attack their own schoolmates, but that was the only way Severus knew how to approach people.  
But then he heard what they were saying.  
“Where the hell am I?”  
“What the… what’s going on?”  
“Ow ow ow ow…”  
Severus winced. No, the menacing approach was definitely not the best option.These students hadn’t done anything wrong (aside from the twelve who hadn’t digested any potion but had attacked anyway, and they would be expelled immediately) and it wasn’t their fault that they were currently lying in a frozen field of snow with injuries that they didn’t remember getting, and injuries that they didn’t remember giving.  
But he didn’t know what else to do.  
So Severus Snape sneered, and clapped his hands loudly so that everyone looked at him. “Stand up. Now,” he hissed, when a few students hesitated. “Inside the castle. Now!” he yelled, and the students scrambled towards the castle doors, possibly more to get away from him than to get inside.  
Severus saw Poppy looking at him.  
He also saw the disappointment in her eyes.  
But what else was he supposed to do? He was Severus Snape! He had a reputation to uphold. That reputation did not include coddling, comforting, or smiles of any kind. Ever.  
Satisfied with this excuse, Severus followed the students inside.  
()()()  
“Do you?” Hermione asked.  
And it was interesting to watch the emotions pass over Harry’s face.  
She didn’t exactly know what they were, but she could see them, clear as day, in the shape of his frown and the depths of his eyes. His eyes were so open, like a book. One look, and she could tell what he was feeling.  
Usually.  
But recently, it had gotten harder and harder to know what Harry was feeling. He seemed more withdrawn. Ever since the Locito incident, she realized. He had never truly forgiven her for that. He had never truly said it. Maybe he didn’t trust her anymore.  
Or maybe she was overthinking things.  
Either way, Hermione could tell that he was lying when he said, “No,” without looking at her and without any strength behind his voice. It was almost as if he wanted her to know that he was lying.  
Hermione waited patiently. Harry had always been a bad liar, more because he felt guilty for lying than any lack of ability.  
Well, maybe he wasn’t a bad liar. He was just bad at lying to her.  
Sure enough, a few seconds later, Harry looked her dead in the eyes and whispered, “No, but I think I could.”  
And as far as Hermione was concerned, that was just his way of saying yes.  
Hermione smirked. “Then get your ass back outside. Don’t leave him alone, you idiot.”  
His reaction was perfect. “Did… did you just…” he stuttered, with his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.  
Hermione had a sneaking suspicion that he was exaggerating, but she still managed to roll her eyes as if he was the most ridiculous person she had ever met. “Yes, Harry. I, Hermione Granger, just swore,” she smirked again. “Had to get your attention somehow. Now go!”  
Harry hesitated.  
“I’ll be fine, Harry. I can get more shredding done without you here, anyway,” Hermione said, eyeing the remains of the sandwich and grinning rather evilly. When Harry still seemed hesitant, Hermione reached and hand across the table and put it on his shoulder, quite awkwardly, but the intent was still there. “Honestly, Harry. Just go. Don’t you want him to wake up and see that you’re there, and that you care about him? Wouldn’t you want him to do to the same for you?”  
Harry was staring at her sandwich now, for some reason, and Hermione couldn’t see his eyes. Even if she had, she had a hunch that she wouldn’t have been able to tell what he was thinking.  
And then he looked up. Hermione’s smile faded when she saw the look in his eyes. Some sort of desperation, some kind of needing that she couldn’t put a finger on.  
“Harry, are you all…”  
Harry interrupted her. “Why are you so okay with this?” he blurted out. Hermione could tell that he had been waiting to say this for a while now. “He’s… Hermione, he’s the son of a death eater and… just a week ago, we hated each other. We attacked each other in class, Hermione! Don’t you remember that?”  
For some reason, Hermione felt like Harry wasn’t trying to convince her at all. It almost seemed as if he was talking to himself.  
Hermione sighed. “Oh, Harry. You do have a way of ignoring the most obvious things,” Hermione picked up a slice of cheese and started mangling it. She smiled at the way he pretended not to care when she didn’t elaborate, and how he became more and more agitated until finally he asked. That was Harry. He was never good at asking questions.  
“Well?” he said, looking completely exasperated. “Tell me. Jesus, Hermione. I wouldn’t have expected you to torture me like this.”  
The back of Hermione’s neck prickled.  
She shivered.  
And the tips of her fingers felt cold. Hermione held them up, but as soon as she had felt it, the feeling was gone.  
“Herm….” Harry broke off, watching her curiously.  
Herm.  
It was the strangest thing.  
But…  
Had someone called her that before?  
No. No! People had called her ‘Mione, but no one had ever dared to call her Herm. Ever. And yet…  
Hermione shook her head wildly, her bushy hair flying all over the place. This was ridiculous. What had she been talking about?  
Oh, yes.  
“Harry,” she said, trying to sound reasonable, and not at all like she was completely not focusing on the conversation, and still trying to remember who had called her by that nickname. “Harry. Draco was attacked by his own housemates for being too un-Slytherin! For seeming disloyal to you-know-who! And now he’s in bloody Gryffindor! His father may be a Death Eater, but Draco definitely isn’t. He would be killed if he tried to return to You-Know-Who.”  
Harry was still looking at her strangely, but then his gaze dropped down to the mangled sandwich. “Okay. You’re right… But, don’t you… I don’t know,” Harry took a deep breath. Hermione felt a stab of sadness. Harry had used to be able to tell her everything, but now just a conversation about talking to a crush had him all nervous and scared. It hurt that he was so worried about talking to her.  
Harry met her eyes again. He bit down on his lip, quite hard. Hermione winced, but he didn’t seem to notice.  
“But… don’t you think it’s a bit weird that he’s… a boy?” Harry spoke quickly, but Hermione caught every word.  
Oh.  
And Hermione buried her face in her hands. That was regret. That was what was causing that ache in her chest, right where her heart was. And that was because now, Harry didn’t even trust her enough to accept him.  
Oh, Harry. No, of course she didn’t think it was weird. How could she? Harry was her friend. She could never think that he was weird. No matter what. Whether it was Draco Malfoy, Millicent Bulstrode, or even Neville fucking Longbottom. Hermione wouldn’t care.  
And Hermione felt tears welling up. Tears for things that were gone, and things that would never come back. Harry would never trust her, not ever again. She had lost that. She had let it slip through her fingers like water, and she hadn’t even missed it until now. Their friendship. Their bond.  
Harry had once considered her his best friend. He had told her that.  
Now all that was broken. Because of her.  
Hermione raised her hands shakily, wiping her tears away with her sleeve, and pulling damp strands of bushy hair behind her ear. Harry was staring at her, sitting practically on the edge of his chair. Right now, Hermione could see the confusion, and the fear, clear as day in his eyes. It was like looking through a window.  
He didn’t trust her. He looked nervous, because he didn’t know why she was crying. And he looked scared, because he probably thought she was crying because she was… disappointed, or angry, or…  
Hermione felt huge, shaking sobs rising up, and she let her head fall into her hands again.  
This was too much. After all that had happened today… after all that had happened over the last week, and Hermione had finally lost it. She couldn’t stop crying, and her chest hurt and her nose was running and salty tears were running down her face. She was disgusting. She was a mess.  
And then she felt a hand on her shoulder.  
It was quiet except for Hermione’s shuddering sobs, which were slowly becoming fewer and fewer until they stopped. Then she stayed with her face buried in her hands because she probably looked disgusting, and she didn’t want Harry to see her like this.  
Hermione felt around for her wand. She never found it, but Harry did and he pushed it into her hand. Hermione cast a tear-drying spell, and her face was dry again and the redness was gone. She still felt miserable, and a few more tears fell.  
Harry pulled her hands away from her face, and he smiled. “Should I take that as a no?” he asked, pretending not to notice the tears still streaking across her cheeks.  
Hermione couldn’t speak, so she just nodded.  
Harry smiled again, but this one was real. “I forgive you, you know,” he said.  
Hermione realized that she wasn’t the only one who could read the emotions of the other. Harry knew exactly what she was thinking, and she guessed that he knew exactly why she had been crying.  
“Thank you,” she was able to whisper, slightly pathetically, but Harry just lifted her out of her chair so that he could hug her.  
“And if you’re wondering,” Harry said, when they pulled away and Hermione was feeling a million times better. “Yes, I am going to go to him. And… I think you’ll come with me?” he asked, grinning and holding out his hand.  
Hermione smiled and took it.  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: snowball fights, a hoarde of bloody queers, and a pickle.  
> Please leave a review! I love getting feedback from you - it makes it so much more enjoyable to write.


	16. 15 - Snowball Fight

Fifteen.  
Snowball Fights.  
-  
()()()  
Minerva flung open the castle doors.  
The students were all, miraculously, still seated around the three long tables. Luckily, it seemed that someone must have had the foresight to tell them not to eat the cake, as untouched slices lay in front of each student, most as far away as possible. The talking ceased immediately and hundreds of faces swiveled to look at her, blinking. Some were scowling. Some were crying. Fifty-four were missing.  
Minerva swallowed nervously.  
“Everyone to your dorms!” she decided to yell, as it was the first safe place that came to mind. Well, it couldn’t hurt for them to get some sleep, although Minerva suspected that many of them would stay up wondering what the hell was going on.  
And Neville Longbottom stood up. Minerva drew herself to her full height, suddenly wishing that her hair was back up. She felt smaller this way. And, irrationally, she felt afraid of what he was going to say, and she had never really felt that before.  
“What’s going on?” Longbottom demanded, pushing his chair to the side with a loud scraping noise that yanked everyone’s attention to him, like they were puppets on a string. Suddenly everyone was watching Minerva, waiting for what she was going to say.  
A few people muttered their agreements, and then suddenly they were chanting, and yelling, and Minerva began to wonder if they really hadn’t eaten any of the potion-laced cake.  
“Silence!” Minerva yelled, and the hall fell silent.  
Longbottom didn’t sit down. He stayed standing, glaring at her. It was a strange sight, because he really was such a short boy, and he had a rather pudgy face with tiny, deep set eyes, but the lines of his muscles from underneath his shirt and the bits of (probably magically grown) stubble on his chin were intimidating nonetheless.  
The fact that everyone in this room agreed with him was intimidating as well.  
But what on earth could she tell them? That someone had added a dangerous potion to their cake? That would just cause panic… something that she, and no one else, was ready to deal with right now. And besides that, telling them that the Malfoy boy was unconscious… Minerva didn’t know if they would be angry or happy to hear that news, but either way, strong emotion in a crisis such as this was not something Minerva wanted. Especially strong emotion in a crowd of several hundred young students.  
And besides, who were they to tell her what to do? To demand information? She was Minerva McGonagall, and she had her hair down, but that didn’t mean that she would let her students order her around.  
So Minerva walked forward, and her high-heels clicked smartly on the floor of the great hall, and her glare was enough to wipe the silly scowl off of Longbottom’s fat face. She stopped a few feet away from him and said, “Sit down, Mr. Longbottom.”  
Longbottom sat down. He looked slightly pink.  
Everyone stared.  
Minerva cleared her throat. “Now. Each and everyone of you will walk in three single file lines behind your house prefects. You will arrive at your dormitories. You will sleep there. And you will not emerge until six o'clock tomorrow. Am I clear?”  
“Yes, Professor McGonagall,” the students choroused, rather reluctantly.  
Minerva smiled. “You may go.”  
Longbottom shot her a departing glare before he walked away.  
Minerva couldn’t have cared less. She was too busy admiring her reflection in a quickly transfigured mirror. She looked good. She looked nice. Perhaps she would wear her hair down more often.  
Thank Merlin for Pansy Parkinson.  
()()()  
“He’s still unconscious?” Harry practically shouted, causing everyone’s head to turn towards him.  
“Well… yes. Sort of,” Pomfrey stammered, seeming very embarrassed. Pansy slowly sidled over, obviously trying to seem casual but failing. Snape was talking to the groggy group of students sitting in the snow, but even he turned to hear.  
“Seriously?” Harry shouted, again.  
“Harry?” Hermione asked, rather quietly.  
“What?” Harry asked, turning to face her.  
“Shut up,” she said, staring at him pointedly.  
Pomfrey smiled. “Thank you, miss Granger,” she said to Hermione, then she turned to Harry. “Yes, Mr. Potter, he is still unconscious. Barely. He should be waking up any moment now.” Pomfrey sighed loudly, rubbing the bridge of her nose in a way that reminded Harry strongly of Snape.  
Harry rolled his eyes at Hermione, who laughed softly. He kicked a bit of snow at her.  
She kicked some back.  
Pansy snuck up on him, screamed, and flung a pile of snow into his face. It stung, but from behind his watering eyes Harry was still able to see enough to form a snowball and beam Pansy in the face.  
She tackled him.  
()()()  
Poppy was watching, slightly amused, as Potter and Parkinson rolled around in the snow, and Granger hit them repeatedly in the faces with snowballs. Snow was flying everywhere, and their squeals of excitement pierced the air.  
The fifty students by the lake watched jealously. Pomfrey saw Ginny Weasley half-heartedly toss a pile of snow at Plum, who ignored it.  
Poppy shared a smile with Severus. He caught himself a moment after and returned to his normal scowl again, but Poppy didn’t stop smiling.  
And then Malfoy woke up.  
He was coughing horribly, dry, racking coughs that made Poppy wince, but at least he was waking up. The snowball fight stopped immediately, and all three of them raced over to crowd around. Parkinson was grinning like a maniac. “You’re okay!” she shrieked, waving her arms around and making snow go all over the place.  
Poppy sighed. “Could you three back up a bit? Give me some space? He’s been through quite an ordeal. Why don’t you go over there and chuck snow at each other again?”  
The three students groaned, but they walked away obediently. Poppy heard the snowball fight starting up again, and she smiled to herself.  
The Malfoy boy stared at her, during the few moments when he wasn’t coughing.  
“Welcome back,” Poppy said, smiling still. She pulled out her wand and started performing spells. She cast a simple Anti-Cough charm (whoever named charms really wasn’t very creative) and immediately, the Malfoy boy’s coughs stopped. He lay on his back, staring up at the clouds. His hair was streaked with dirt and snow, and there was blood on his face, but he didn’t seem to notice.  
“Thanks,” he said. “Where’s Harry?” he asked, suddenly trying to sit up, but flopping back down with a grunt.  
“Over there,” Poppy said, gesturing towards a flurry of flying snow. “And don’t try to move. You haven’t recovered yet, even though you may feel fine.”  
“Did I really say that I love him?” the Malfoy boy asked, apparently not caring at all about anything else Poppy had to say.  
Poppy pushed down a wry smile that was threatening to appear, and instead nodded somberly.  
“Shit,” he said.  
()()()  
Ginny Weasley would not stop whispering in Stasia’s ear.  
At one point, it struck Stasia that Ginny’s favorite gossip partners, Parvati and Lavender, were both gone. Perhaps Ginny was trying to find a replacement.  
That was kind of sad, but Stasia still wanted Ginny to go away.  
“What was he like?” she whispered, in a low, secretive voice, as if both of their lives would be consecutively ruined if anyone found out about this conversation. “Harry, you know. Because… well, I sort of have a crush on him,” she said with a sigh. “He’ll never like me back, of course. It’s a real pickle. Anyway, is he nice? I’m sure he is, but, you know, is he? You would know, after all.”  
This led Stasia to fall down a deep, dark hole, which presented images of all the times that Harry had not been very nice to her.  
Yelling at the top of his lungs.  
Glaring at her from across the table.  
Slapping her in the face.  
But Stasia knew that these things had all been her fault. Her fault for being stupid and boring. Her fault for using Locito. Her fault for not getting help. Harry was really very nice, really. Probably.  
Well, it didn’t matter, because Stasia wasn’t about to tell Ginny any of that. Not now, not ever. Stasia tried to push the bad things away, and focus on the good.  
“Yeah, he’s nice,” Stasia said, thinking of Harry’s smile, and the times that he had kissed her, and when he used to play with her hair by the fire. Once, he had fed her marshmallows.  
Stasia felt warmer just thinking about it. She started to smile, and she started not to feel so bad.  
Maybe Ginny was right. Maybe whispering was better than just being sad, and just thinking about the fact that they were sitting in the snow listening to Snape tell them about how the cake had been poisoned and apparently they had just attacked four students who just happened to be Draco, Pansy, Hermione, and Harry. Stasia still couldn’t believe that she had done that, so she tried not to think about it.  
Stasia turned to Ginny, smiling now, and said, “Yes, he’s nice. And he used to buy me little presents. Things like bracelets, and shoes… He doesn’t have much money, you know, but he did it anyway. Once he got me a great big bag of treacle tart…”  
Treacle tart.  
Treacle tart.  
Anastasia shook her head slightly to get rid of the voice in her head. Ginny looked at her a bit strangely, but smiled and nodded for her to continue. Anastasia sighed and settled back with her arms around her knees, and Ginny sat across from her.  
Anastasia watched the clouds drift across the sky, letting herself get lost in the memories. If she was lucky, maybe she would never find her way back out.  
“He always said that I was so beautiful. He would fix my glasses and push back my hair and he would say that I was pretty. I think he was lying, but that’s okay.” Anastasia swallowed hard around the lump in her throat. It didn’t go away, and now her eyes were burning. Anastasia wiped at them with the back of her hand.  
Ginny put a hand on her shoulder. “You are pretty, really,” she said. “He wasn’t lying.”  
Anastasia just shook her head and tried to focus on the slowly sailing clouds, instead of the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. If she stayed in her happy memory place, then she would never have to leave.  
“He saved me from the troll, you know,” Anastasia said, letting her thoughts drift away with the clouds. “The troll was coming down the stairs and it was so huge, and I was terrified. I thought I was going to get clubbed to death right then and there. I couldn’t even move, because I was so scared. But he grabbed my hand and pulled me to safety. And then he made the troll fall over the balcony. Filch spent weeks trying to get the troll guts out of the carpet,” Anastasia said, with a laugh.  
“I heard about that from Ron,” Ginny sighed. “He said that Harry would make a much better boy-who-lived than Longbottom. He’s always saving people, and Longbottom is just useless.”  
Stasia was sure that she had heard wrong - of course Ron wouldn’t say that, he was Longbottom’s friend, and he despised Harry - but she had to ask anyway. “I’m sorry… did you say that Ron said that? Ron said that Harry would be a better boy-who-lived?”  
Ginny looked confused for a moment, and then her eyes widened comically. Her eyebrows had risen so high that they seemed to merge into her red hair. “Um…” she said, with her mouth opening and closing as she searched for something to say. Her cheeks were quickly getting redder, and Stasia had a hunch that it wasn’t because of the cold.  
Anastasia was already sorting through possibilities in her mind. Ron had been there during first year. What had happened to that, anyway? He had seemed so nice. Oh, right. He had become friends with Longbottom, and over five years, Stasia had assumed that he had started to hate Harry, and Hermione, and all of them with a burning passion. Similar to the way that Draco had seemed to hate them, only a few weeks ago.  
But maybe neither of them ever had.  
Well, Anastasia would have to tell Harry later. If he would believe her, or even listen to her, that is.  
“He didn’t say that, actually. I said that. He hates Harry,” Ginny said, much too late. It was a bad excuse, anyway. Anastasia realized with a twinge of annoyance that Ginny genuinely thought that Stasia would believe her  
Anastasia nodded with wide eyes, pretending to be completely stupid. It was an art that she had perfected, because people assumed that she was stupid no matter what she did. At least she could use it to her advantage.  
Ginny cast a wary glance over at Ron, who was talking to Longbottom. They were laughing and, and Stasia thought she heard the words, “Fucking idiots,” “Snowball fights,” and, “A horde of bloody queers.”  
The last one was accompanied by loud, chortling laughter.  
Maybe she had been wrong, Stasia thought, rolling her eyes and losing herself in the clouds again to block out the noise. Beside her, Ginny sighed and lay down in the snow.  
()()()  
Severus Snape cleared his throat.  
The thirty-eight students who had stormed onto the lake in a haze of anger were now sitting in the snow, looking around and wondering how they had gotten there in the first place.  
The other twelve were gone. Dumbledore was with them in his office. They would most likely be expelled, if Dumbledore had even a shred of competence left. Chasing other students to the edge of a lake and proceeding to fling hexes at them was certainly a good enough reason for expulsion. If Dumbledore didn’t expel them, Severus would resign.  
He felt the familiar taste of bitterness on his tongue.  
Dumbledore didn’t deserve to be headmaster anymore. If anyone deserved the position, it was Severus. But no, he wasn’t even good enough to be the DADA professor.  
Severus realized that he had been brooding, and that all thirty-eight students were staring at him awkwardly.  
Severus Snape cleared his throat, again.  
“First, let me assure you that you are all, most likely, not about to be expelled,” Severus began.  
Perhaps that wasn’t the best way to begin. If anything, they only looked more scared. Severus caught glimpses of chewed lips, bitten nails, shaking hands, tear-stained cheeks.  
It was then that Severus realized that, for the most part, this was a crowd of completely innocent children, who had just been through a quite terrifying ordeal. Perhaps he would have to take a softer approach. Perhaps…  
Severus sucked in a breath, and tried to seem more like Poppy. More like Poppy, with her fake smiles, and the little wrinkles around her lips because she pretended to smile so often. Poppy, who people generally disliked, but still trusted. She did save lives, after all.  
“And,” Severus continued. (He wasn’t about to smile, but he did try to seem a bit less harsh) “Absolutely none of this is your fault. You see…” he paused, trying to think of the best way to say this. He noticed that a few people were whispering, and not everyone was paying attention (a few people were staring off at the clouds), which irked him quite a bit, but he was quite able to pretend that it didn’t. “You see,” Severus said, again. “Someone within Hogwarts castle put a very dangerous potion into the cake, which you all consumed about an hour ago.”  
It appeared that that was not the correct way to go about it, as now there was a chorus of gasps from the audience, and a few exclamations filled with more curse words that Severus would have thought possible.  
“We are working to find the culprit, and precautionary measures will be taken to insure that, in the future, no more food is… poisoned,” Severus said. Poisoned had not been the right word, but it had been the only one to come to mind, which perhaps was a testament to how not nice he was used to being.  
In any case, most of them were paying attention now. The little Weasley brat and Plum were still whispering, and Severus shot them his most deathly glare, but they didn’t notice. He sighed, deciding to just continue and get it over with.  
“What was the potion?” Ron Weasley shouted, from beside Lee Jordan and Dean Thomas. Thomas looked absolutely miserable.  
Severus sighed. This was hopeless.  
“Furorem potion,” he said. There was no reaction.  
Why did no one take the time to learn a damn thing about…  
Severus sucked in an angry breath through gritted teeth. “Which,” he said, in a voice full of barely controlled spite, “Is a potion that causes the victim to become very, very angry.”  
He overheard MacMillan mutter something about, “Snape,” and how, “He probably drinks bottles of the stuff.”  
Severus very nearly rolled his eyes.  
“This potion,” he continued, having completely given up the niceness attempt and now pacing in a tight circle, glaring at each student in turn, “Is the reason that each of you are now sitting miserably by the side of the lake. It’s also the reason that you followed four fellow students out of the castle and threw hexes at them, injuring them in the process. If you weren’t aware, those students were Pansy Parkinson, Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter. Draco Malfoy is still unconscious.”  
There was silence. Even Weasley and Plum had shut up and were now staring at him from wide, watery eyes.  
“As for you all,” Severus continued, his voice breaking neatly through the silence. “You may return to your dorms until further notice. Anyone who leaves their dorms will be immediately expelled.”  
It was a bit drastic, but it was necessary. Otherwise, no one would listen, and with a possible almost-murderer on the loose, it was imperative that all the students were safe.  
Or, at least, as safe as they could possibly be, under the circumstances.  
You could be a bit more positive, said Lily.  
Severus ignored her, but he clapped his hands to get their attention much louder than necessary. A few students appeared to nearly jump out of their skins. He smiled wryly, and then resumed his normal, sour expression. “To your dorms. Now,” he hissed, with a murderous scowl fixed firmly onto his face.  
And he glanced at Poppy, but she wasn’t looking at him.  
Severus scowled even more.  
()()()  
Poppy stood, and held out her hand. “The potion should have taken affect by now,” she said. “It’s safe for you to stand.”  
Draco reached out for her hand, but before he could take it, he was attacked by a laughing, crying Pansy Parkinson. She shouted something obscene that Poppy didn’t quite catch, and then wrapped Draco up in her arms. She whispered into his ear, and Poppy didn’t know what she said, but she smiled anyway.  
She turned to go back inside, and caught the Potter boy staring at them with a strange expression on his face. Something like… longing, perhaps? After years of being a nurse, Poppy had become very good at reading people, or so she liked to think.  
Wait. Wasn’t that… strange? Why would he…  
Poppy shook herself. She had more important things to worry about.  
“You should go inside now,” she said, realizing that the four students were still waiting in the snow. “Draco should be fine, but I would like to see him in the hospital wing tomorrow, just to check up on him. And… I think it would be prudent for the four of you to spend the night in the Room of Requirement.” Because it was nearly impossible to get into unless you knew it was there, the Room of Requirement had become the place that everyone was constantly reminded to hide in if death eaters ever attacked. It would do well to hide these four students, as well.  
They nodded.  
Poppy nodded back.  
()()()  
Blaise Zabini watched as the doomed stag bolted across one of Malfoy Manor’s expansive gardens. It was majestic, with its antlers clawing at the air and the clapping of its hooves against the earth - like thunder. It was huge, bigger than Blaise had expected. If it decided to turn and charge towards him, he had no doubt that he would feel a tiny speck of fear.  
But he had the wand, and the animal didn’t, so Blaise was not afraid.  
The five Slytherins deemed worthy of “further training” were lined up at the edge of the garden with their wands pointed at the stag as it raced across the field. The pounding of its hooves seemed to fall into a rhythm that matched the erratic pounding of Blaise’s heart. If he hadn’t trained his hands to always be steady, they would be shaking.  
No, Blaise was not afraid. But he hated killing.  
And he hated watching defenseless creatures die.  
Perhaps that was why he had saved Malfoy and Parkinson.  
But Blaise knew that he would not hesitate when the moment came. At Carrow’s signal, the first person to kill the stag would win… well, nothing. But the losers? Blaise had no doubt that they would be punished. That was how things worked here, after all.  
The stag had reached the middle of the field. Dirt and dust was thrown up by its pounding hooves, and the sun sent stripes down its shining, dripping pelt. The air smelled faintly of sickly-sweet flowers thrown up by the frantic movements of its legs.  
Blaise wondered, briefly, why the Dark Lord had chosen a stag. Out of any animal he could have conjured, why a stag?  
Did it matter?  
And then Carrow whistled shrilly, and Blaise swallowed the vomit that was rising into his throat, and narrowed his eyes, forcing himself to feel that anger that was always there, always hidden just beneath the surface. He was always angry. Angry that he was here, at this godforsaken place. Angry that he wasn’t strong enough to kill a fucking animal that hadn’t existed ten minutes ago.  
And he screamed.  
“Avada kedavra!”  
And he didn’t realize that the others were staring at him, stunned, because a jet of greet light was forming at the end of his wand. It pulsed for a moment, at the same pace as his own heartbeat, and then Blaise screamed again, raw and full of hidden hatred, and the light disappeared.  
Blaise was confused for a moment, until he realized that the stag was convulsing on the ground, limbs flying everywhere in all sorts of wrong directions. It looked like a mutated spider, with its antlers digging into the earth and its limbs cracking before Blaise’s eyes.  
The air smelled like flowers and blood.  
Blaise felt his stomach start to churn. The vomit rose up into his throat again. Before he could control it, he was bending over and retching violently into the grass. The smell of his vomit was drenched in the disgusting perfume from the flowers, and Blaise just felt sicker. His mouth tasted vile.  
When he looked up, everyone was staring at him, and the stag lay still.  
“First killing curse can be a bit wonky,” Carrow grunted, in his empty, stupid-sounding voice. “Can cause… well, that, basically. Some wizards prefer it, and they never try to do it cleaner.”  
Blaise straightened up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He tried not to focus on the taste, because that would just make him retch again.  
“Weak stomach, Zabini?” Nott said, smirking.  
Blaise just ignored him.  
“I didn’t see you performing a successful killing curse, Nott,” Carrow said, dully. “The Dark Lord has plenty of spare stags. Care to show us your skills?”  
Plenty of spare stags? What?  
Nott paled slightly, and Blaise could see the wheels turning as he tried to come up with an excuse for why he couldn’t possibly show them his impeccable skills at the killing curse. Finally, he just grunted, “Nope, not really.”  
That explained why anyone joined the Dark Lord in the first place.  
They’re all bloody idiots.  
Greengrass leaned over and smothered her face in Nott’s mouth. The air was filled with the sound of sucking and slurping, as if they were trying to drink each other’s saliva. Blaise wrinkled his nose.  
Carrow interrupted them. “Remember. In just a week, you all will be demonstrating your skills in front of the Dark Lord. You’d better be ready.”  
Oh shit, Blaise thought.  
The rest of them nodded enthusiastically, like stupid little parrots.  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: fluffy couches, wandless magic, sleeping well, and Ginny Weasley.  
> The story's finally gonna get good! jk. But I've prewritten up to chapter twenty-four and I'm SO excited for you guys to get to read what happens next!  
> Anyway, please leave a little review! I'd love to know your thoughts, I really would. No need to be afraid of the review button, it won't bite you. In fact, it's pretty nice :)


	17. Sixteen - A Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might start posting twice a week. Just because I’m so anxious to get to the stuff I’ve prewritten! So if you want that… please review? I’ll probably do it anyway, but a few reviews would be nice, haha. :)

Sixteen.  
A Gift.  
-  
()()()  
The common room was silent, but anyone could taste the tension in the air. It was a palpable, physical thing. Anyone could see it in the shifting of eyes, the tapping of feet, the fidgeting of fingers. Anyone could hear it in the silence heavy with quiet breathing and ticking clocks. And anyone could touch it, in the shaking of their hands and the clenching of their fists and the grinding of their teeth.  
The Gryffindor students were all sitting in the common room. Sitting in chairs and sofas, sitting on the edge of the fireplace, on tables, on the floor. Blinking eyes and whispers in ears and nervous glances.  
Ron Weasley sat in the corner of the common room, next to Ginny and Plum and the others who had participated in the attack by the lake. The rest were at the opposite side, staring at them. No one else spoke to them, and they didn’t speak to anyone else.  
Longbottom wasn’t there. He was talking to Rita Skeeter, spreading his lies. Ron felt the ache of anger and jealousy rise up in his chest.  
“A gift,” Ginny said, abruptly shattering the silence and making everyone turn to look at her. “To say we’re sorry. It won’t help but… We should do something,” she finished, quietly, sadly.  
Ron turned to face his sister. “That sounds like a good idea,” he said. Several others murmured quiet agreement.  
Plum spoke quietly from the corner, without looking at them or anyone. “I could bake some treacle tart,” she said. Her voice sounded hollow and flat, and after she said it she clenched her fists tightly, and whispered, “Dammit,” to the fireplace. She leaned forward and rested her forehead against the stone, and she didn’t move.  
Ron was confused, but he didn’t ask.  
Ginny looked confused too, but she just pretended to smile and said, “That would be great, Anastasia,” in a tone that Ron immediately recognized as fake cheerfulness. But that was okay. If Ginny wanted to pretend to be just fine, that was alright by Ron. He just hoped that if she needed anything, she knew that she could come talk to him, and he would listen.  
And then Plum turned away from the fireplace, but Ron swore that there was still fire in her eyes. Her jaw was clenched and her shoulders were stiff, and she looked like she was trying her best to prevent any muscle from relaxing, even a little bit. She turned to Ginny and now her voice was thin and full of anger, and she said, “No, don’t let me. Don’t you dare let me make a crumb of treacle tart.”  
She said “treacle tart” like it was the name of someone she wanted to murder right then and there, messily and with as much pain inflicted as possible. And she pushed through the little crowd of students in the corner, and walked through the silent common room, and up the stairs to the girl’s dormitories without a look back.  
“What’s her problem?” Lee Jordan asked. He had been by the lake, too. Of course he had. Lee could never resist cake. If Fred and George were here, Ron was sure that they would be making some joke about that. But they weren’t, and Ron couldn’t think of any.  
They had left Hogwarts in third year to become Aurors, and fight against you-know-who. They weren’t especially good at magic, but in recent years, the Ministry had become much more lenient. There could be no shortage of fighters when You-Know-Who was rising again.  
They had dreamed of owning a joke shop. Now, they probably would never get the chance.  
“I don’t know,” Ron muttered. Lee looked at him oddly, and Ron realized that it had been almost a minute since he had asked the question.  
“What are you thinking about?” Ginny asked, quietly so that only Ron could hear. She pulled him away from the group a bit, closer to the fire.  
“Nothing,” Ron lied. But the fire was illuminating his face, and Ron knew that Ginny was exceptional at knowing whether or not other people were lying, just from one look into their eyes. Especially if they were obvious, like Ron was.  
But Ginny just smiled. “That’s okay,” she said. “Me neither.”  
Ron smiled sadly. “For the record, I think your idea was great. I’ll help you make something, if you want.”  
Ginny’s face lit up in a huge smile, and she wrapped him up in a bone-crushing hug that removed all of the air from his lungs like he was a deflating balloon. “Thank you thank you thank you!” she cried, making everyone turn to stare at them.  
“No….. problem…” Ron managed to say, in between grunts as more and more air was forced out of him by a grinning Ginny, held close to his chest.  
()()()  
It been a long fucking time since Hermione had sat by a fire, with her nose buried in a book, and the faint smell of paper billowing around her face.  
Or maybe it hadn’t, and it had just felt that way. Hermione felt like she had been outside by the lake for hours and hours. McGonagall had told them that it had been only twenty minutes. Hermione still hardly believed it. She still hardly even believed that it had happened. If it wasn’t for the fact that they were sitting in the Room of Requirement - complete with fluffy couches, four separate beds, and a roaring fire - she wouldn’t have.  
She peered over the edge of her book (Unusual Spells and How to Cast Them) at Harry. He was sitting alone in a fluffy armchair, and staring at the fire as if he could read it. Hermione saw his eyes wandering back and forth over the flames, as if he was trying to find something that he had lost. His face was bathed in red, and his eyes looked alive, but at the same time he looked so small and so messy and so… just Harry. After everything that had happened, he was still just short and skinny and sixteen years old. Which was sad. Or was it? Hermione couldn’t decide.  
She looked at Pansy and Draco, who were sitting together on the couch. They were far enough from the fire that their faces just looked slightly golden, like the sun was shining through a window and bathing them in light. Pansy’s arm was wrapped around Draco’s waist, and her head was on his shoulder. She was smiling faintly, as if someone had told a funny joke a few hours ago and she had just remembered it, and it was still just funny enough to make her smile. Despite all that she’d been through, her skin was still glowing, her hair was still gorgeous, and she looked peaceful, sitting there by the fire. Like nothing was wrong with the world, and everything was going to be alright.  
But Draco… Draco was the problem. Hermione bit her lip absentmindedly as she watched him. For some reason, the sharp pain made her feel better. But not much.  
He was staring at the fire too, but differently than Harry. His eyes looked haunted. It wasn’t like he was searching for something, but like he was watching something terrible happen in those flames. He had such a dignified face - with the high cheekbones and the pointed chin and the sharp nose - that the tormented look in his eyes did not suit him at all. Or perhaps that was just because this was Draco, and Hermione wasn’t used to seeing anything but a sneer or a smirk or a look of contempt on his face. No, this wasn’t normal at all.  
And it reminded Hermione of first year. Of her, Harry, Draco, Pansy, and Weasley, going to the end of the fourth floor corridor and saving Stasia, but letting the Stone go.  
That seemed like so long ago that Hermione still wasn’t entirely sure that it had happened. And could this really be the same Draco Malfoy that had accompanied them all those years ago? He had changed so much. Hermione felt like she was looking at a whole new person.  
“Are you just going to stare, or are you going to say something?” he asked, his eyes suddenly meeting hers, making Hermione’s heart jump feebly into her throat. There was no bite in his voice, no sneer to go along with his words. He just sounded tired. No, he sounded exhausted. He probably was.  
“Sorry,” Hermione whispered, hoarsely. Her voice sounded strange. Probably because it was so quiet. Draco didn’t say anything, he didn’t even make a sign that he had heard her, he just looked away. Hermione caught Harry glancing over at him, caught their eyes meeting, and perhaps some sort of message had been conveyed through that gaze, but whatever it was, Hermione hadn’t been close enough to see it.  
She averted her eyes, turning back to her book and flipping a page, but the words just blurred before her eyes. Her eyelids suddenly felt so heavy.  
She was exhausted too. And the fire was warm, and she felt like she was drifting away on a cloud. Her head fell forward onto the pages of her book, and she fell asleep.  
()()()  
“I’m going to sleep,” Pansy said.  
But she didn’t move.  
Draco liked the feeling of her warmth against his body, and the tickle of her hair on his neck. It made him feel special, that someone wanted to be so close to him. It made him feel better. Thank god for Pansy Parkinson.  
He let his eyes wander over the room, because otherwise he would start staring at the fire again, and start replaying everything over and over again in his mind.  
Granger had fallen asleep. She was curled up against the arm of the couch, with her bushy hair going in all sorts of directions. Her book had fallen to the floor, and she must have lost her page. Draco was glad that she was asleep. She couldn’t stare at him, and he couldn’t see the thoughts circling around behind her eyes as she tried to figure him out, like he was an arithmancy problem.  
And there was Harry. Draco glanced at him, and their eyes met again. It made his heart flutter uncomfortably in his chest, and it made the edge of his lip curl dangerously upwards. Harry wasn’t staring at the flames anymore, now he was leaning against the back of his chair, facing away from the fire and facing towards Draco. He was smiling vaguely, and watching Draco quietly with those green eyes. He had pulled the hood of his oversized muggle sweater over his head, but tufts of messy black hair was still poking out adorably. Draco wanted to touch them, suddenly, irrationally. In fact, he wanted Harry to be the one with his head on Draco’s shoulder and his arm around Draco’s waist, instead of Pansy. He wanted it badly.  
Draco broke the eye contact and stared at the floor.  
Pansy stirred, pulling away from him and getting up from the couch. Draco immediately felt colder. “I’m going to bed,” she repeated. She smiled at Draco, and then she walked silently across the fire-striped carpet, over to Granger. “Should I move her?” she asked, gesturing at the sleeping girl in the fluffy armchair.  
Harry shook his head slightly. Pansy nodded, smiled, and walked away, leaving a quiet room with only Harry, Draco, and a sleeping Granger.  
The fire popped and crackled and danced.  
Suddenly, Draco’s mind exploded with things that he wanted to say to Harry. He wanted to tell him that he was sorry for ruining everything and that if it hadn’t been for me in the first place, none of this would have happened to you and you look nice in that sweater.  
He wanted to say that he hoped that Harry was okay and that it made his head swim when Harry looked at him, and that he was probably crazy for thinking that. He wanted to say that everything had happened too fast that he wasn’t even sure who he was anymore. He wanted to tell him how thankful he was that Harry had saved him, time and time again, and how much he didn’t deserve it, and never would.  
And his thoughts were all jumbled up and they didn’t even make sense, but he wanted to tell Harry about each and every one of them.  
But Harry’s eyes were drifting closed, and he sighed softly, and smiled quietly, resting his head on his arms in the most adorable way. “G’night, Draco,” he whispered, his words slurred by the fog of sleep.  
“Night, Harry,” Draco whispered back. Glad that he didn’t have to speak, but nervous because he would just have to do it tomorrow. There were so many things that he had to say to Harry.  
He just hoped that he would say them right.  
()()()  
For some reason, Harry had good dreams.  
He didn’t remember them, but he knew that they were good because he didn’t wake up in a cold sweat with that beating heart… and anyway, if they were bad, he would have remembered them. He always remembered his nightmares.  
But, instead, he woke up with a smile on his face and something hazy and blurry slipping away back into his mind. He yawned, stretched his arms out in front of him, and felt for his glasses.  
They weren’t there.  
And then he remembered - he wasn’t in his cozy Gryffindor colored, bed, he was in the Room of Requirement with Pansy and Hermione, and Draco sleeping in the chair next to his. Harry glanced over, and saw Draco sleeping, curled up awkwardly with his chin resting on his arms and his face towards Harry.  
He looked peaceful.  
And then Harry remembered the past day, the past weeks, and it was like everything rushed over him in waves, and he wondered how on earth Draco could look so calm lying there with his eyes closed and that soft smile on his face. It wasn’t fair.  
Harry wished he could go back to sleep again.  
God, he didn’t deserve this. He didn’t want this. If only there were some kind of device to go back in time.  
Harry would never stop using it.  
And why him? And why his friends? He was no one special. He didn’t fucking matter. He wasn’t any different from the rest, and he was only sixteen (even though he felt so much older) so why should he have to deal with this? Why should any of them have to deal with this?  
Especially Draco. And it was the strangest thing, because in this light and when he was asleep like this, Draco looked like exactly the kind of person who didn’t deserve this. Without his sneer and without the weight that he seemed to carry around, he looked like a normal sixteen-year old boy. Not the son of a death eater. Not someone who much of Gryffindor house would just love to kill.  
Just a boy.  
And he looked nice like that.  
Sure, he had looked nice before. He usually looked nice, actually. But now he looked different. He looked like a different person, someone Harry had never met before.  
It was weird.  
Harry moved his elbow, and his chair creaked.  
Draco’s eyes shot open.  
Harry felt like a deer in the headlights. Gray (beautiful) headlights. He just sat there, staring at Draco, who was staring right back at him. Then Harry allowed a small smile to tug at the corners of his lips. “Hi,” he whispered. “You okay?”  
Draco narrowed his eyes slightly, but after a few moments, he slowly nodded. Then he sat up, but didn’t break their eye contact. “Yes,” he said, in a voice gravely from sleep. “And you?”  
Harry smiled. How could he not be okay with a sleepy, messy-haired, grey-eyed Draco sitting right there in front of him? And how could he not be okay when no one was hurt, and everyone was alright? That was the best that he could have asked for.  
“Yes,” he said, smiling. “I’m okay.”  
It was ridiculous, actually, that Harry could be genuinely okay in spite of all of this. But he felt good. Perhaps because he had slept so well… or because of something else. He wasn’t sure.  
Draco glanced over to the right, and Harry followed his gaze to the empty couch Hermione had been sleeping in. She must have gone to bed, and that meant that he and Draco were basically alone in the dark room with the flickering embers and just them, sitting in chairs only a few feet away.  
Draco’s eyes snapped back to meet Harry’s. He took a deep breath, and opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but no sound came out. He ran an agitated hand through his hair, turning away from Harry to stare at the fire. He snapped his fingers and it roared back to life, snapping and crackling.  
Harry, even after five years in the wizarding world, was impressed.  
Draco caught him staring, and a bit of his classic Malfoy smirk returned to his face. “Simple wandless magic,” he said. “Learned it when I was twelve.”  
Harry scowled.  
Draco laughed, which made Harry grin. He still wasn’t used to this.  
He hoped he never got used to this.  
“Teach me, then,” Harry said, jumping into a sitting position and crossing his legs. “If it’s so easy,” he said, smirking at Draco.  
Draco’s mouth hung open for a few moments before he snapped it shut, sighing exaggeratedly. “Fine,” he said, heaving another sigh and standing up to walk over to the Hermione-less couch and sitting down. “You’ll have to sit by me,” he said, slightly awkwardly, which made Harry grin more.  
Harry walked over and plopped down next to Draco. He still wasn’t sure why they had to sit next to each other, but he wasn’t about to complain.  
Then Draco took his hand, and Harry felt little tingles run up his arm like pins and needles. He almost shivered, but was able to force it down. But it didn’t take away the fact that he was sitting so close to Draco (he hadn’t even noticed) and they were holding hands.  
Draco looked into his eyes, still holding his hand suspended in the air, as if looking for something there. Harry nodded, once, it’s okay, and Draco smiled, turning his hand over, palm-up.  
He traced the lines there, without speaking, and without any kind of emotion showing on his face, but somehow Harry could feel it like waves washing onto a shore. Sadness. Happiness. Longing, although that was probably Harry, or else he was just imagining things.  
Draco swallowed hard, still looking down at their hands. Then he held Harry’s hand out in front of him and held his forearm steady, so that Harry’s fingers were pointed at the fireplace. “It’s easier this way, at first,” he said, in that same husky voice, thick with sleep. “You just have to imagine that your hand is a wand, and that you’re pointing it at the fireplace.”  
Harry squinted, trying to feel the wand in his hand, always making him feel stronger, less afraid. Like he could take on werewolves, dementors, even Voldemort himself, just with that piece of willow in his hand. He could make things levitate, he could make things burn, he could do anything.  
“Now use Incendio. Just like any other day, and just like you’re casually starting a fire, because it’s cold.”  
“Incendio,” Harry whispered.  
And the power rippled through his arm, sending shudders down his spine, which Draco surely felt. But he gave no sign. Harry watched the fire, and felt that same power that would usually inhabit his wand now spread to his hand, tickling his fingers, and now shooting out towards the empty, smoking fireplace…  
Nothing happened.  
Harry dropped his arm into his lap, and Draco let go quickly. “It didn’t work for me the first time, either,” he said, quietly. “Try again?”  
Harry turned and looked at Draco, and his eyes were so gray that Harry was transfixed for a moment, like a deer in the headlights. He stared at Draco, realizing for the first time how close they were and how close their eyes were too each other. Was that okay? Was it really?  
Harry felt okay.  
He liked the closeness.  
And then the door opened, and Hermione walked into the room.  
Harry sort of yelped, jerking away from Draco as if he had been burned. He barely registered the hurt in Draco’s eyes because he was too busy jumping up from the couch and pretending like he hadn’t just been sitting there, which was stupid, but for some reason it seemed like the only possible thing to do.  
Hermione stared at him.  
Draco stood up as well, wiping his hands on his pants and stepping away from Harry. He ran his hand through his hair, making it stick up weirdly, but he either didn’t know or didn’t care. Harry saw him turn to stare at the wall, saw him clench his fists.  
Why had Harry done that?  
He hadn’t even thought about it, actually. It had been a reflex, an instinct. Someone walked into the room, so of course he couldn’t been seen holding hands with Draco, on the same couch as him. The thought hadn’t crossed his mind that perhaps Draco would take it the wrong way, or perhaps the wrong way was the only way it could be taken. Maybe Harry was wrong.  
Because it felt strange to be so close to Draco, when Hermione was there, but she had told him that she didn’t think it was weird, and that she would support him.  
And now Harry was just staring stupidly at Hermione, and her eyes were darting between him and Draco as if she was trying to figure out what had been happening in the few seconds before she entered the room.  
And then Ginny’s flaming head poked out from behind Hermione, and Harry felt his heart beat in his chest.  
“Oh, god,” he whispered.  
Ginny stared at him.  
And he stared at Ginny.  
It was like electricity. And it wasn’t just a stare, it was something real. Harry felt like if he reached his hand up, he could feel their gazes, meeting in the air. He felt like her eyes were carving into his skull. He wanted to look away, but he just couldn’t.  
“Hey, Harry,” Hermione said, awkwardly. “Ginny got here about an hour ago. She said that she wanted to see that you were alright.”  
Ginny.  
Harry felt something aching in his chest. Something like regret, for all of the things that he had never said. The things he should have said, but hadn’t been brave enough to. Two years? Was that how long they had gone without talking? How ridiculous that seemed, now. Now that Harry was older, he could almost see himself working up the courage to…  
But instead, Harry just nodded, once, to her, and she stood still as a statue. Neither of them spoke.  
“Okay. Well, I’m glad he’s alright,” Ginny said, a few moments later.  
Hermione stared at them, her eyes darting back and forth again. Harry smiled slightly at her, even though he knew that he could never tell her the truth. It was too… embarrassing. Stupid fifteen-year-old Harry had never seen this coming.  
Sixteen-year-old Harry wished that he had.  
Ginny walked past Harry, and he felt her robes swish past his legs. For a moment, he had a nearly irresistible urge to reach up and touch her red, red hair.  
And then she was gone.  
And Hermione was stepping in front of him, glaring into his eyes with her arms folded. “Explanation,” she demanded, tapping her foot on the ground impatiently.  
()()()  
Ron had never been down in the kitchens before. And technically, he wasn’t supposed to be. Because technically, Ginny had told him that whatever he made for his “I’m sorry” gift had better be actually fucking made by him and not by house elves.  
But Ron wasn’t listening. And besides, it was a good opportunity to learn something new. He had never in the kitchens before, after all.  
And it was a strange experience. A steamy, sauna-like, sweet-smelling room filled solely with tiny creatures only marginally taller than his knees.  
A strange experience indeed.  
And Ron accidentally coughed because of the smoke (someone had burned toast, he could tell because of the grey clouds rising up from one of the toasters), alerting the bustling house elves to his presence. They all stopped and stared at him, eyes bulging out of their heads, ears waving up and down.  
Ron felt distinctly uncomfortable. He didn’t like things that could walk, and talk, but weren’t exactly… human. It creeped him out, the way that they stared at him with their eyes like quaffles, wearing nothing but little towels around their waists.  
“Yes? What d’you want?” one of them emerged from the smoke, slightly bigger than the others, and slightly greyer. He looked older. There were wrinkles around his eyes and a few bite marks in his ears. He had a generally sour complexion that made Ron feel smaller, even though the top of one of the house elf’s ears barely reached his waist.  
Ron straightened up then, remembering that this was a house elf and he was, by rights, its superior. It had no authority over him, and there was no reason that Ron should feel uncomfortable. Come to think of it, he didn’t know why he had felt that way at all. It was just another, ordinary house elf.  
“Just a box of treacle tart,” he said, because he remembered that Potter liked the stuff.  
The house elf grinned. Rather evilly, Ron thought (quite irrationally).  
The other house elves around him started whispering. One of them even spoke up, in a trembling voice, saying something like, “But Master said that you is not supposed to…”  
The bigger house elf silenced him with a glare, and turned back to Ron with a silky smile on his face. Ron thought that he remembered something someone had said, about the cake being poisoned, but he hadn’t really been listening. And, anyway, it was a house elf. House elves didn’t poison things, they just followed orders.  
“If you would rather I didn’t make it for you…” the house elf said sadly, in unnaturally good English. “But you will not have your gift. We can make lovely treacle tart for you, in a very short amount of time.”  
Ron shook his head, “No, it’s fine. I don’t mind. Just… try to be finished before my first class, okay?”  
The house elf grinned again. “No worries, master. Pickles will be glad to make this treacle tart for you.”  
Ron smiled, and walked out of the kitchen.  
()()()  
It was getting worse.  
Worse. So much worse.  
She couldn’t even move. She didn’t even try. Her head pounded, always. Her hands shook.  
It wasn’t meant to be this way.  
You weren’t meant to resist.  
And it ebbed and flowed, like the tides. One moment she was crying from the pain, and the next, it was gone. But it always came back. Always. She would never be free, never be painless, as long as she kept trying, like this.  
But what would happen if she stopped? What would she do?  
“Headache,” Ginny Weasley said. “Maybe you should see Madam Pomfrey.”  
Stasia ignored her.  
“Dimbles,” Luna Lovegood said, at breakfast. “You have so many Dimbles around you, it’s crazy. You have more than Cedric Diggory! There were hundreds around him, and all bright blue. Yours are blue, too, just so you know. You should probably get that checked.”  
Stasia ignored her, too.  
“Destiny,” Voldemort told her, in her dreams. “Give in. You will, sooner or later. You’re just causing yourself more pain.”  
Stasia ignored him.  
But for how much longer?  
()()()  
“Time for class,” Harry said, stepping around Hermione without saying a word.  
But he felt her hand around his arm, and she pulled him back to face her. Her nails dug into his skin. Harry jerked his arm out of her grasp without looking at her, and started gathering his books.  
“Harry James Potter,” she said, in a voice becoming more agitated and higher by the second. “You had better tell me right now what the hell is going…”  
Harry swiveled to face her, and something in his eyes must have surprised her, because she closed her mouth and backed up a step. “No,” he hissed. “I don’t owe you an explanation. I don’t owe you anything. Shut up.”  
Harry wasn’t exactly ready for class, but he didn’t care at that point. He walked past her, vaguely hearing her sputtering and attempts to speak, but he paused when he got to Draco. (He wanted Draco to come with him. He didn’t want to be alone.)  
Draco looked up from the ground, and Harry saw that his eyes were carefully guarded, that everything was hidden beneath the surface. Whatever he truly felt, he would never let Harry know. But their eyes met for an instant, blue and green, electricity, and then Harry swept past them and out the door, slamming it behind him, and walking right into Ginny Weasley.  
()()()  
The door slammed. It echoed around in Draco’s head, making everything buzz. He waited patiently for it go away.  
He could feel Granger’s eyes on him.  
“Where’s Pansy?” Draco asked, staring blankly at the dying fire.  
“Asleep,” Hermione said.  
Draco smiled bitterly. Pansy had always been a deep sleeper. But he wished that she could be here now, instead of just him and Granger. He barely knew her, and he didn’t want to talk to her. But he could hear what Pansy would say, if she were here.  
Well, someone’s having a bad day.  
What’s his problem?  
Come here and kiss me.  
Draco nearly laughed out loud, when he heard that last one. The false-sensualness of her voice, husky and deep, and then she would laugh so high that it was like she was shrieking. She would bounce over to his side and kiss him on the cheek and he would grin like an idiot.  
He used to think that he never felt true happiness unless he was with Pansy. That bubbling feeling in his chest, like he was going to overflow. And everything was so funny and so perfect that Draco wanted to take all the memories and put them into a pensieve so that he could see them over and over and over again.  
But that wasn’t true anymore. Hogsmeade with Harry had been the most magical time of his life, and he didn’t even know what it meant. He could spent hours puzzling it all over and he still wouldn’t be able to work out what he was supposed to do about it.  
Dimly, he heard Hermione sit down next to him on the couch. “You okay?” she asked, bushy hair outlined with the red of the fire, hands clasped in her lap.  
“Yeah, I guess,” he muttered to the carpet, suddenly angry. Because he wasn’t fucking okay, goddammit, and if he could take all of the emotions that he was feeling and stuff them into bottles, in that moment he knew that there would be too many to count.  
Hermione moved her hand towards him.  
Draco jerked away, and then his legs were moving and suddenly he was standing and backing away, turning in an agitated semicircle with his hands behind his head, and finally stopping to stare at the fire.  
He didn’t want her to touch him. He wanted to be alone.  
“What…” she tried, pausing and swallowing hard before continuing. Draco swiveled to face her. Eyes always made people more uncomfortable.  
“What happened back there? With you and Harry on the couch. What were you doing when I came in?” And why did you stop?  
She didn’t say it, but Draco knew she wanted to know.  
But he wouldn’t tell her. It felt personal. It felt like it was only between him and Harry, and it should stay that way. Forever. He was alone with Harry so rarely, and they touched so rarely, that it felt precious. It felt like telling other people would contaminate it.  
“Nothing,” he said, not even pretending like he wasn’t lying. “We weren’t doing anything.”  
Granger stared at him, and her eyes were disgustingly big and sad and watery. “Okay,” she said, barely whispering.  
Draco nodded and headed for the door, but he paused when he reached it, reluctant to leave like this. He couldn’t stay, but the interaction had left a sour taste in his mouth. “Tell Pansy I say hi,” he decided to say.  
The fire crackled.  
Hermione nodded to the floor, not looking at him. One foot was perched stiffly over the other, and her shoulders were rigid, like stone. She didn’t move a muscle. He frowned at her bushy hair, and opened the door.  
“WHAT THE FUCK ELSE DID YOU THINK I WOULD DO? YOU WERE THE ONE WHO TOLD ME YOU LOVED ME, AND I BELIEVED YOU!”  
Draco briefly caught a glimpse of a fuming, spitting Ginny Weasley before he slammed the door and walked backwards, slowly, back into the room. The image was burned into his eyeballs. He swore he could still see the outline of her flaming red hair, floating around everywhere he looked.  
“What the hell was that?” Granger asked, looking up now and staring at him with wide eyes.  
Draco shrugged shakily, still in shock.  
()()()  
All previous thoughts that Harry might have been having disappeared when he saw Ginny. He froze, unable to speak, like a stone in the doorway. The words choked and died in his throat, so he was left opening and closing his mouth uselessly, most likely looking like a fish.  
She glared at him.  
“How long has it been since I’ve spoken to you?” she asked, in that dangerous, quiet voice. She grabbed his shoulders and sort of shook him, making his teeth rattle around in his jaw. “How fucking long?”  
Harry tried to speak, but all he could manage was a kind of pathetic whimper.  
“A year, Potter. A year, and this is the first time I’ve said a word to you, and you say nothing. I came in there to see if you were all right, you diseased, pathetic piece of shit!” she screamed, her voice so shrill that it hurt his ears.  
Harry still had hardly processed what was happening. He was being held with a death grip, by nails the size of daggers, which belonged to Ginny Weasley, a girl that he hadn’t spoken to since third year. He had never thought that he would speak to her again.  
“Do you have anything to say for your pathetic excuse for an existence?”  
She says “pathetic” a lot now, was the first thought to cross Harry’s mind.  
A part of him probably hadn’t comprehended yet that this was really happening. After all, he hadn’t even spoken to Ginny for a year because he was so mortified every time he looked at her, so could it really be possible that her nails were digging painfully into his shoulders as she pinned him against the wall, or that her face was only inches away and her eyes were flaming? Blue, and pale as glass, but still shimmering with an anger that Harry had tried so hard to forget...  
No, not really.  
So Harry, in some sort of delirium (or perhaps denial) started laughing. Not a nice laugh, it had an edge of steel, and it sounded cold. And Harry reached out and pushed her away, so that she had to step back and stare at him. “What the hell are you talking about?” Harry demanded.  
Ginny’s eyes flickered.  
“Me? Are you serious?” she laughed too, hollowly, in disbelief. She took another step back, her flaming hair swinging back from her shoulders. She crossed her arms and waited, apparently expected him to say something.  
Harry didn’t know what she wanted him to say. He didn’t know why she was doing this. He had thought that they had agreed to leave it in the past… he thought that she would have forgotten by now. Apparently not.  
“I…” he attempted, hoarsely. No other words came out.  
Ginny glared, the sort of glare that made Harry want to sink into the ground. “Are you kidding me?” she demanded. “You are such an idiot!”  
“Well what do you want me to say?” Harry asked, shouting slightly. Ginny was being ridiculous, and Harry shouldn’t have to listen to this, but now her words were getting the best of him and he could feel his temper rising. He got emotional so easily these days - he was already losing control.  
“That you’re fucking sorry!” she screamed. “Just say you’re sorry, for god’s sake!”  
“For what?” Harry yelled, even though he knew perfectly well what she was referring to.  
Ginny stared at him in disbelief, her eyes boring smoking holes into his forehead. “Are you serious? Are you losing your memory now? You’re practically useless!”  
When Harry didn’t reply, Ginny took a step forward, basically screaming now, with skin slowly growing redder. “Do you need me to spell it out for you? Say you’re fucking sorry for using me. I’m sure you remember, idiot. And at this point, I don’t care if you apologize. It doesn’t matter to me, because I’ll know that you’re lying. But you should because it’s the right fucking thing to do,” Ginny lunged forward and pushed him hard against the wall, making a wheeze of breath leave Harry’s lungs.  
Harry knew that she was right, but he was too angry to accept it. “What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t do anything wrong! You agreed to do it!”  
“WHAT THE FUCK ELSE DID YOU THINK I WOULD DO? YOU WERE THE ONE WHO TOLD ME YOU LOVED ME!” Ginny screamed, pushing Harry against the wall again, harder and harder with each scream. “AND I BELIEVED YOU!”  
Harry was too focused on the pain spreading through his back to think about answering her questions. Or maybe he just desperately didn’t want to.  
Because she was right.  
Right.  
Right.  
And he was wrong.  
“Fine, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice still hoarse and jagged. He shoved her away from him and she stared at him from behind damp pieces of shining red hair.  
And she shoved him back against the wall and pulled her hair aside so that she could kiss him, rough and painfully on the lips. It wasn’t romantic or sweet, it was angry and tense and wrong. Her tongue invaded his mouth, and her teeth bit down on his lip, and Harry was too insane to realize that he was kissing her back. They were moving, squirming, desperate against the ragged bricks that dug into Harry’s back, and her nails scraped against his cheeks and he tasted blood in his mouth, salty and metallic.  
And she pulled away abruptly, taking several steps back as if she still couldn’t believe what had happened. She shot him a final look of absolute loathing, and then she turned on her heel and stalked down the hallway, taking a sharp corner and disappearing from view.  
()()()  
“YOU WERE THE ONE WHO TOLD ME YOU LOVED ME, AND I BELIEVED YOU!”  
Stomping around in Draco’s brain.  
Making stars float in front of his eyes.  
Louder than anything he’d ever heard.  
He felt dizzy.  
Draco fell back onto the couch, almost in a daze. Harry and Ginny? Ginny and Harry? How had he not seen it? Last year, with all the quick glances across desks and behind corners, and the unending hand-holding, it was disgusting! But Draco had still been too thick to figure it out. He had noticed when Harry didn’t come down for breakfast, and how… sad he looked at lunch. Of course he had, because he always noticed everything about Harry. But he had never pieced it together.  
Ginny and Anastasia. Both girls. Oh, Draco, how sad for you. You and your pointy chin and your short hair and your cock.  
First year was just a mistake.  
Hogsmeade was just an accident.  
None of it mattered.  
(That was irrational, but Draco didn’t care.)  
He only then realized that Hermione was staring at him, with narrowed eyes, and he could almost see the calculation whirring around behind her eyes. He snorted. He was just another Arithmancy problem to her. Well, he would like to see her try to figure him out, because even he hadn’t managed to do that. He smirked at her from behind the dying light of the smoldering fire, and from the look on her face he looked suitably disturbing.  
She averted her eyes.  
“He likes you, you know,” she said, staring at the ground, hands folded neatly in her lap. “He doesn’t like Ginny anymore. I don’t know what’s going on out there, but he likes you, not her.”  
Draco snorted again. What would she know? No, it couldn’t be true. And he wouldn’t let himself hope, because hope just led to crushing disappointment. So Draco didn’t even consider it for a second. “No he doesn’t,” he replied, almost immediately. “And even if he did, why would I care?”  
She raised her eyes again to meet his, and she must have picked some resolve up off the floor because now her voice was stronger. “He does,” she said, nodding as if agreeing to herself. “Trust me, I would know. I’ve been friends with him since he came to Hogwarts.”  
Crabbe and Goyle were my friends since first year, but that doesn’t mean they knew anything about me, or that they didn’t turn around and stab me in the back the first chance they got.  
Age didn’t make a friendship any better, not necessarily.  
(Denial is easy with practice. Draco had plenty.)  
Draco allowed himself an emotionless fraction of a laugh. “Were you now?” he asked, eyeing her almost lazily.  
She seemed to be getting angry now. “Yes!” she cried, clenching her fists and glaring at him from her chair. “And I know he does. Haven’t you seen the way he looks at you at meals? The way his face lights up when he sees you? He… he likes you, Draco.”  
And he kissed you in first year, and it was magical.  
And he saved you, again and again.  
And he tied your scarf at Hogsmeade.  
He said he loved you. (But he was probably lying.)  
And when he looks at you, little shivers tingle up your spine and it feels electric, and he has this look in his eyes like he feels it too.  
“I was showing him how to do wandless magic,” Draco said, slowly, drawing out each word. Granger leaned forward, listening intently. “And he had to hold my hand to do it. And when you came in, he jerked away like I was going to burn him.”  
Hermione fiddled with her fingers in her lap. “He’s just scared. We all get scared sometimes,” she smiled as if she was trying to encourage him, then she grabbed her bag from off the floor and slung it over her shoulder. “Time for class,” she said.  
Draco stood too.  
And his heart pounded when she opened the door, but Ginny was gone. It was just Harry, leaning against the wall and looking like he’d seen a ghost. “You alright?” Hermione asked, putting a hand on his shoulder like it was the easiest thing in the world. And he leaned into her touch as if that was easy, too.  
“Yeah,” he said, clearly lying, but what else was he supposed to say?  
He turned to look at Draco, and smiled half-heartedly. Draco smiled back, and then it was gone, but Draco could still feel the electricity buzzing around inside his head.  
()()()  
Ginny ran into Ron, who was carrying a plate of treacle tart. “What’s that for?” she snapped, still dangerously angry.  
Ron stopped, looking like he wanted to turn around and walk the other way more than anything. Ginny stopped with her hands on her hips and glared at him for no reason, tapping her foot on the ground. “Erm,” he said. “It’s for Malfoy and Parkinson and Granger and…”  
“No,” she said. “Don’t you dare give it to them. Unless it’s poisoned, that is. Is it poisoned?”  
Ron blinked stupidly. “Er…. not that I’m aware of.”  
“Well then throw it away. Throw it away Ronald,” Ginny ordered, her eyes radiating hatred.  
“Er, Ginny, what happened down there?” Ron asked, still holding the damned plate of tart. It smelled delicious, which only made Ginny angrier. She wanted to punch Potter’s stupid face into his brain and watch blood gush out all over the floor.  
“What happened? WHAT HAPPENED? How DARE you ask me what HAPPENED? Shut up and THROW AWAY THE GODDAMN TREACLE TART!” Ginny screamed, wrestling the plate away from Ron and hurling it against the wall. It broke into a million pieces with a crash, and slimy pieces of treacle tart were smeared against the wall. Ginny laughed hysterically.  
“Hey….” Ron said. “I was gonna eat one of those…”  
Ginny rolled her eyes. “Clean it up. I’m going to my room.”  
“I’m not cleaning that!”  
“Fine, then DON’T clean it. See if I care,” Ginny said, spinning on her heel and stalking down the hallway, her footsteps echoing. She didn’t look back.  
()()()  
Pickles wiped his hands on one of the other house elf’s ridiculous towels, grinning maliciously at nothing in particular. When he was finished, the house elf squeaked in fear and went to hide under a curtain. Pickles laughed.  
He traced the dark mark on his arm, then he took a knife and stabbed right into the skull’s right eye. It hurt like hell, but he hardly even felt it. “It is done,” he whispered, to seemingly no one.  
The house elves cowered.  
Now, what does Longbottom want?  
Pickles grinned as he set out his ingredients.  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for: gossip, house elves, and CUTENESS.  
> So, yeah! If you like, please review and I might start posting two chapters a week for a while! It probably won’t last forever because I’ll run out of prewritten chapters, but I just can’t wait to get to the good stuff!!  
> And I’ll probably do it even if you don’t review… but I would love it if you would! It only takes a minute.


	18. Seventeen - Thank God for Granger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Sailor Silver Ladybug for betaing.

Seventeen.  
Thank God for Granger.  
-  
()()()  
Pansy was not sleeping.  
She had woken up around four in the morning to the sound of footsteps. A shiver of panic swept through her body, and Pansy grabbed her wand from beside her and pointed it into the direction of the noise, hands shaking. But even though she had just woken up, Pansy was alert, ready for anything.  
“It’s okay. It’s only me,” someone called out from the darkness beyond the door. A soft voice. Pansy relaxed, but didn’t lower her wand. The voice sounded familiar, but it couldn’t hurt to be sure.  
Pansy cast Lumos, and the light erupted in front of her eyes, making her squint and blink, and making her eyes water. Then she climbed out of her bed, padding across the room, opening the door. It creaked as it swung open.  
The light flickered through the doorway and onto Hermione, who was holding a pile of books and a blanket, and smiling at her. Her hair was wild, her eyes were sleepy and soft, while Pansy’s hair was tied up in a ponytail, and her eyes were sharp and awake and dark. Hermione had even brought ugly pink pajamas, while Pansy was wearing sweatpants and had gone without a shirt. She didn’t care, not really, but she suddenly felt very exposed in front of Hermione. She crossed her arms in front of her chest as if on impulse, not even realizing that she was doing it.  
Hermione walked past her through the door, but stopped on the other side of it. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she whispered.  
Pansy tried to smile, but it came out as a smirk. She wasn’t used to smiling around anyone but Draco. “I’m glad you’re okay, too,” she said, because that was all she could say.  
Pansy went back to her bed, lying quietly, waiting for Hermione to get settled. She heard the rustling of fabric as Hermione slid under the covers, and then a quiet yawn from beside her. Pansy smirked at the ceiling.  
“G’night,” Hermione mumbled, already half-asleep.  
“Good night,” Pansy replied.  
The light went out.  
But Pansy didn’t sleep.  
()()()  
Harry, Draco, and Hermione were standing awkwardly in the dimly lit hallway.  
The three of them stared at each other for a moment. Then Hermione said, “I’ll go get Pansy.” Her eyes met Draco’s, briefly, purposefully. She raised her eyebrows, jerking her head in Harry’s direction, smiling, and then she was gone.  
Draco stared at the place where she had been, not ready to meet Harry’s eyes. Not ready to look at him, not after what had happened. Despite what Hermione had said, he still wasn’t sure where they stood. He still didn’t know what he was allowed to do, or allowed to say.  
He never did, not around Harry.  
But when he felt a hand on his shoulder, Draco turned around and met Harry’s eyes. So close. So bright. Harry must not feel the same way, because he wasn’t afraid to touch Draco, afraid to be near to him. Draco was the one who was scared. Draco was the one holding everything back.  
He tried to smile.  
He failed.  
“Hey… you alright?” Harry asked, looking worried. He bit his lip, which made him look adorable, and made Draco’s heart bounce around inside his chest. God, he wanted to kiss him.  
“Yeah,” Draco lied. “Let’s go to class.”  
()()()  
They paused outside of the Potions classroom.  
We can’t go in together. We can’t.  
Harry looked at Draco. Draco looked at Harry.  
“Er… should I…?” Harry tried.  
“No, I’ll just…” Draco trailed off.  
But then again, safety in numbers, right? Perhaps it would be better to go in together.  
And they didn’t owe anything to the other students. It wasn’t Harry or Draco’s job to protect their fragile little eyes from seeing them together. Rumors would spread regardless.  
And Harry was scared. He didn’t want to go in alone.  
He wouldn’t admit that.  
And would he have to? Or did Draco already know?  
They looked at each other, neither moving. Hesitating. Harry didn’t move, because he wouldn’t make Draco do anything that he didn’t want to do. But when Draco looked away, only to lace his fingers into Harry’s, Harry smiled wider than he had ever smiled in his life. He couldn’t see Draco’s eyes, but he knew that he was smiling too.  
“Together?” Harry asked.  
“Why not?” Draco replied, turning to look at him. He wasn’t smiling - he looked for all the world as if he couldn’t care less what was about to happen. The pointed chin, the upturned nose and the stern features of a Malfoy. He looked confident, dismissive, haughty - all at once.  
Malfoys and their masks.  
If it wasn’t for the tremor in Draco’s voice, Harry wouldn’t think that he was nervous at all. Harry knew it was just a coping mechanism, but he still didn’t like it. He gave Draco’s hand a squeeze, but he pulled out his wand with his other hand, quietly, so that Draco wouldn’t see.  
Just in case.  
Harry knew that they would be safe. Snape was there, and Dumbledore had apparently agreed to oversee their classes as well. But still. It was unnerving, after what had just happened. Even though it wasn’t their fault, and it was the potion in the cake.  
Who knew what could happen next? There could be an almost-killer on the loose in Hogwarts, and perhaps the other students had been given another potion which would make them attack Harry and Draco on sight, or maybe a dangerous spell. Either way, it was better to be safe than sorry.  
He took a deep breath. He looked at Draco, and they nodded to each other. Ready.  
Draco opened the door.  
The first thing that Harry saw was Ginny Weasley’s face. She was sitting in view of the doorway, and when she saw him there holding Draco’s hand she glared, turned her head with a flip of red hair, and whispered something into Anastasia’s ear. Harry didn’t see how she reacted, because he was too busy focusing on holding tight to Draco’s hand, as if it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.  
Harry tried to breathe, but his wand hand was shaking and his knees were shaking and his stomach was doing cartwheels that made spikes of anxiety shoot into his throat. He stared at the ground, trying to ignore the pressure of thirty eyes boring into his head.  
He hadn’t expected Ginny to be here.  
Why was Ginny here?  
He couldn’t look at her - he couldn’t look at any of them - and he tried to ignore the whispering that followed them as they walked into the Potions classroom.  
Right foot, left foot.  
Harry didn’t let go of Draco’s hand until they were seated at a desk in the back of the classroom. Draco was squeezing his hand so hard that it almost hurt, and his nails were digging into Harry’s palm. But Harry didn’t mind. He liked the pain, sort of, it kept him grounded. It kept the anxiety and the fear from overwhelming him.  
Harry took a shuddering breath and dared to raise his eyes from the floor to meet Draco’s. Grey like clouds, and his mask was stronger than ever. If Harry couldn’t feel how tightly Draco was squeezing his hand, he wouldn’t think that he was affected at all.  
That wasn’t fair.  
Harry had to be the nervous one, the scared one, and Draco got to look confident, got to look fine, as if Harry was the only one who was afraid and Draco was only holding his hand to comfort him. Not because he was scared, too.  
Well, Harry would just have to deal with it.  
He raised his eyes from Draco’s and tried to ignore the fact that everyone was staring at him. He felt a bit of gratitude towards Snape for continuing his lecture as if nothing had happened, not acknowledging their presence at all. He continued droning on about potions, but Harry saw that his eyes were fixed on Draco’s, as if he was trying to send him a secret message.  
And Harry looked at Dumbledore, looking for some kind of reassurance there.  
Dumbledore didn’t even look at him. He looked happy. He looked fine. He was smiling stupidly at his paper as if nothing was wrong at all. His half-moon spectacles were perched jauntily on the end of his nose and he was wearing bright purple robes as if this was a fucking celebration.  
There was a knock on the door.  
Snape stopped talking, and everyone turned to look.  
It was a house elf. Slightly larger than normal, and slightly greyer. It was wearing a shirt instead of a towel, and carrying a goblet of golden liquid. He waddled across to Dumbledore and handed the goblet to him. “Your drink, sir,” he said, in a lower voice than was normal, and gave Harry a shudder of deja vu.  
Dumbledore accepted it without looking up, and drank it in one gulp. He stroked his beard absently, adjusted his spectacles and his hat, and then handed it back.  
The house elf turned, and his eyes met Harry’s.  
They were yellow, and bright, and they made Harry’s skin crawl and the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. The house elf’s eyes narrowed, and he looked angry, (or perhaps that was just Harry’s imagination) and caused a strange burning in Harry’s forehead. It felt like the elf’s gaze was carving a hole in Harry’s skull. Harry pressed a hand to his forehead, but the pain was gone as soon as it had appeared.  
The house elf snapped a finger, and was gone.  
()()()  
“He’s a filthy cheater,” Ginny practically spat into Anastasia’s ear. “He probably left you because he was shagging that death eater.”  
Anastasia looked.  
All she saw was Harry, holding Draco’s hand.  
And anyway, she was still too focused on the fact that she could think again, and move, and walk. At some point this morning, the unending pressure on her mind had lifted. She felt normal again. It didn’t hurt anymore.  
She wondered how long that would last.  
“Why do you care?” she asked Ginny, who was tapping her pencil impatiently on the desk.  
Ginny’s head snapped around to face her, and a look of disbelief crossed her face. “Seriously?” she asked. “We were together for two years! Of course I care! And I don’t like how he treated you. He hasn’t changed a bit,” she said, bitterly. “Sometimes I wonder if he doesn’t deserve all this. Maybe it’s karma.”  
“Of course he doesn’t deserve it,” Anastasia said. She wasn’t sure why she was defending Harry, but she wasn’t angry at him, and didn’t see a reason why she should be. She was the one who had used Locito, who was boring and weak, who wasn’t right for him. Even if he had cheated, it wouldn’t surprise her. The fact that he had even been with her in the first place had been surprising. Perhaps it had been too good to be true.  
Ginny raised her eyebrows. “After everything he did to you?”  
“What did he do to me? Aside from save me, aside from love me, even though I never deserved it…” Anastasia trailed off when she saw the look of astonishment on Ginny’s face.  
“Oh. My. God. You are so… Do you ever think for yourself? Come on!” Ginny exclaimed, loudly.  
“Shh!” Anastasia hissed, afraid that Harry would hear. She turned to look at him, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at the front of the room like he was in a trance.  
Anastasia realized that everyone else was, too. She turned to look at what they were staring at, and saw a little grey house elf, just before it snapped its fingers and disappeared.  
She wondered briefly why they were watching it so intently, but then she turned back to Ginny, who was glaring at her. “You’re pathetic,” she whispered, in a voice full of venom that made Stasia wince, because it was true.  
Ginny turned away, looking down at her paper. She didn’t look at Stasia again.  
()()()  
Lunch.  
Loud.  
Draco wanted to stick his fingers in his ears and bury his face in his folded arms, or Harry’s, but he didn’t. He lifted his chin and pretended like he didn’t notice that everyone was looking at him, and talking about him. He pretended that he didn’t hear fragments of his name from every direction, and that he didn’t see the people pointing at him.  
He was a Malfoy.  
“Confidence, Draco. Don’t let them see your fear. Fear is the first step to defeat,” his father said, stalking around Draco and tapping the ground with his cane. Draco didn’t flinch.  
Draco missed his father.  
It had hit him like a wave, all of a sudden. Realizing that his father probably knew what had happened by now, and probably loathed him. He probably despised any mention of his son. Understandable. Draco had brought shame to the Malfoy name. His father would have to work hard to build his reputation back up again. That was Draco’s fault.  
He was pulled out of his thoughts when Harry poked him in the shoulder, looking worried, and gesturing at his uneaten sandwich. “Are you going to eat something?” he asked, sounding like Draco’s mother.  
That hurt much worse.  
Draco looked away so that Harry wouldn’t see how it affected him. “Not hungry,” he muttered.  
“It’s not poisoned, you know,” Harry said. “Dumbledore made sure. And the Aurors monitored everything. You’ll be fine if you eat.”  
Draco just nodded, but didn’t move.  
“And… we could go somewhere else, if you like. I’ll admit… I don’t like this place much, either,” Harry said.  
Draco turned to look at him.  
Harry gave him a sheepish smile and shrugged his shoulders. Draco’s breath caught in his throat and hung there, frozen, when he saw Harry.  
God, he was so cute.  
And Draco was uncomfortably aware of his pointed chin, his angry eyebrows, the square lines of his face. Stern, like a Malfoy. He was the spitting image of his father, right down to the hair on his head. Sure, he didn’t gel it anymore. He had stopped that long ago. But no amount of brushing or washing or wishing or magic could make him look any less like his father.  
“No,” Draco said. His voice broke, so he looked away quickly, hoping that Harry hadn’t noticed. He was pathetic. Practically crying over nothing. He wasn’t strong, either. Not like Harry was. Harry would never like him. In fact, he was probably only pretending to be his friend. Draco was probably some kind of charity case.  
He stared at his sandwich, wishing he could rip it into pieces with his eyes.  
He likes you. Haven’t you seen the way he looks at you at meals? The way his face lights up when he sees you? He likes you.  
And he kissed you in first year, and it was magical.  
And he saved you, again and again.  
And he tied your scarf at Hogsmeade.  
He said he loved you.  
And when he looks at you, little shivers tingle up your spine and it feels electric, and he has this look in his eyes like he feels it too.  
Draco looked back at Harry.  
“Yes,” he whispered, so quietly that Harry shouldn’t have been able to hear it over the thunder of voices. But a smile lit up Harry’s face, making his eyes shine, and he grinned and held out his hand for Draco to take. Draco did, with his heart stomping around inside his chest, and it was warm and soft and it kept him rooted there, right where he should be.  
“I know the perfect place,” Harry said.  
He pulled Draco up out of his chair and everyone else turned to stare at them, but Draco couldn’t care when Harry was looking at him like he was the only one who mattered in the whole, wide world. Draco grinned stupidly in spite of himself. Granger smirked from across the table.  
Thank god for Granger.  
Because it seemed that she was right.  
()()()  
The owlery.  
Was it too soon? Was this a good idea?  
Harry had tried to push the doubts away as they climbed the stairs, but once they were standing outside of the doors it was hard to stop them from overwhelming him. What if Draco thought it was weird, or even... creepy, that he had brought him here? As if he was suggesting that they kiss again? Harry wasn’t not suggesting that, but he had thought that it would be nice, with the warmth and the feathers and the owls. Maybe even romantic. Maybe it would make Draco feel better, since he seemed to be so on edge all the time. That was understandable, but Harry wanted Draco to feel alright. He hated the haunted look in Draco’s eyes, when it wasn’t shoved under a mask.  
He glanced at him anxiously, wishing he could read Draco’s thoughts. But his face was a blank slate. Was that a bad sign? Harry fiddled with his hands. “I… uh… I thought it would be nice here, but… I don’t know…” he stumbled over his words, so he settled for silence, peering anxiously at Draco out of the corner of his eyes.  
Draco was staring at the door, purposefully looking away from Harry. He fiddled with the door handle, turning it and letting it spring back with a barely audible click. He was still carrying his sandwich in one hand, pressed against his chest. It overshadowed the musty, feathery smell of the owlery with the smell of cheese.  
This had been a bad idea.  
Why couldn’t Harry have decided to go outside? They could have sat on a bench like they had at Hogsmeade. Except… maybe that would have brought up bad memories. No, that was bad too. What about… what about…  
“Jesus, calm down, Harry,” Draco said, with a laugh. He put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, and something sparked. It made Harry’s head jerk up, and it made his eyes meet Draco’s, all of a sudden.  
Draco’s eyes were wide, as well. He was staring at Harry, and his hand was still hovering above Harry’s shoulders. His mouth was slightly open. Harry smirked. “You can tell me to calm down when your mouth stops hanging open,” he said, quietly. But without any force, so that Draco knew that he had felt it, too.  
Draco shut his mouth with a snap, glaring at Harry and making a show of rolling his eyes. “Shall we?” he asked, hand on the door handle, eyes piercing into Harry’s. They didn’t even look like eyes, they looked like shards of ice.  
Harry smiled and nodded, too smitten to speak. What had happened to him? And how had he not noticed it… whatever it was?  
That didn’t even make sense.  
He was losing his mind.  
And all he could do was watch as Draco Malfoy pulled the door open and walked through ahead of him. Everything was slightly blurred, everything was hazy and musty. The floor, lined with soft, grey feathers, was blurred, and the light streaming in from the windows was foggy. It was like the room was filled with mist.  
The owls started hooting and calling to each other, flapping agitatedly in their cages and from beams high up in the shadows of the ceiling. Harry saw Persephone, ruby red, as red as Pansy’s hair, give a cry of delight when she saw Draco. She swooped down from the ceiling like a ghost and landed on his shoulder in a bluster of wings and claws. Draco turned to face Harry, stroking Persephone’s feathers and smiling at him.  
The slanted, dust-filled light from the windows streaked across his face and set him alight, from the curve of his face to the paleness of his skin, and the snow-white hair on his head. Harry’s breath froze again when Draco pushed Persephone off his shoulder so that he could shrug off his bulky school robes and lay them on a stool. He looked back at Harry shyly from his crisp white shirt and his garish Gryffindor tie tied loosely around his neck. Harry wanted to kiss him.  
Instead he laughed at the stools, hoping he wasn’t pushing his luck by saying, “I remember these,” and gesturing at them. The same stools where they had been sitting in first year. The same stools they had kissed in, oh so long ago.  
Draco raised an eyebrow. “Of all the things to remember, you choose the stools?” he pulled one over with a creak and sat on it. Harry almost laughed, because last time Draco’s feet had dangled off the edge, and now they reached the floor. Barely, and just the tips of his toes, but still. They had grown so much.  
“I remember I liked these stools a lot. A bit strange, actually. I can’t recall why…” Harry said, pretending to look thoughtful, and hoping he hadn’t gone to far, again. He sat in the stool across from Draco and took a bite of his sandwich, just for something to do.  
Draco’s expression was truly… oh god. Harry burst out laughing against his will, nearly falling off of his stool. Draco’s eyes were wide and his mouth was hanging open again. Disbelief. Surprise. It looked so strange on his face.  
Draco shut his mouth with a scowl, biting into his sandwich as well. Harry smirked triumphantly. Draco rolled his eyes again, but a smile sneaked across his lips, tugging at the corners of his mouth. Harry grinned.  
This was so much better than the great hall.  
Alone, in the quiet of the softness of the owlery. Nothing but the creaking of old, sweet-smelling wood, and the rustling of feathers in the high beams of the ceiling. Dust and sunlight and greys and browns and warmth. It was as if everything had changed outside in those five years, but this place had stayed exactly the same.  
“It’s so peaceful here,” Harry said.  
Draco’s hair had fallen in front of his eyes so Harry couldn’t see them, but he could tell that Draco was looking at him through it. Unlike when the other students had stared at him during lunch, Draco’s gaze felt warm. It made his skin tingle.  
“Do you know… did anyone tell you what you said by the lake?” he asked, without thinking. “And what I said?” he added hesitantly. Instantly, he wished he could snatch the words out of the air and stuff them back into his mouth. If he hadn’t gone to far before, now he certainly had. All his doubts came flooding back. He stared at the floor, almost believing that if he just didn’t look at Draco, it would be like it had never happened, and like Harry had never said a word.  
But he was also curious. They were in the room that they had snogged in. Five years ago, but still. Harry needed to know. And he wanted something to happen. They had spent too long waiting and tiptoeing around each other. He needed to know if Draco really felt the same way.  
All the signs pointed to yes, but he wanted to hear it from Draco himself. Suddenly it was the most important thing in the world.  
Draco jerked his head to flip his hair out of his eyes and he stared at the ceiling, perched on his stool like an owl. His hair matched the feathers drifting lazily from the ceiling, with shafts of sunlight cutting through like spears.  
Harry had drawn Draco once, accidentally, during potions class. If he had paper and pencil, he would have drawn him now, on purpose. He would have captured the lines of his porcelain skin and the shadows cast by the streams of sunlight. He would have added speckles of dust shimmering with light, feathers drifting down to land in Draco’s hair. The indecision on Draco’s face, the thoughts racing by behind his grey, grey eyes.  
Harry felt like, in the few seconds it took Draco to answer, he could have drawn all that, and more. It seemed to stretch out and out and out, and his doubts piled up. What if he was wrong, and Draco didn’t really want to be reminded about that? What if he didn’t remember it, and he would think Harry was a creep?  
“I remember it,” Draco said. “Clear as day. It’s as if it happened yesterday.”  
It wasn’t very funny, but Harry smiled anyway.  
“Did you…” Harry said, growing somber again, trailing off. He didn’t want to finish the sentence. He didn’t want to know. After all this time, after everything that had happened… Draco’s answer could change everything.  
“Did I mean it?” Draco asked, smirking wryly and catching Harry off guard. He shut his mouth and waited, waited, literally on the edge of his seat. Hoping. What if Draco was just playing with him?  
Draco sighed, looking out the window again. Then, suddenly, he turned to meet Harry’s eyes. “Yes,” he said.  
And Harry’s world cracked into a million, glittering pieces.  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Crucio, bad smells, and checkered carpet.  
> And please review! You just read about 5,000 words of a story that came from my brain. I’d really like to know what you think about it! (I’m not going to complain… but it does get a little lonely sometimes.)


	19. Eighteen - Crucio

Another intense chapter… but I’m sure you know by now that most of my chapters are intense, lol. However, this one’s a bit worse, in my opinion. I had to play a lot of loud, angry music to get through writing this, lol.  
And thanks, as always, to Sailor Silver Ladybug for fixing all my mistakes.  
Enjoy!  
()()()  
Eighteen.  
Crucio.  
-  
Argus Filch hated children.  
That was no surprise, but what might be more surprising was the depth of his hatred. He could sit in a room by himself and just stew in it. Simmer like a pot of pure loathing. Boil over like watery rage soup. He hated everything about them, from the squeak of their high-pitched voices to their stupid conversations and their clumsy magic.  
Why did he work at Hogwarts, then?  
To get his revenge. To make their lives as miserable as possible. It was fun. It made a rare, grotesque smile slime its way onto his mess of a face.  
And Argus Filch swore to himself that the waste of oxygen who had splattered foul-smelling treacle tart all over the hallway would pay dearly. Perhaps Dumbledore would finally allow Argus to whip students again, or to hang them upside down by their ankles. He had seemed to be in rather a good mood lately.  
Argus muttered vile phrases under his breath as he got out a filthy rag and started scrubbing the wall. He hated his job. A few years back, Dumbledore had asked him if he wouldn’t be better suited for something else (whatever that meant) and Dumbledore could employ someone with magic to be the caretaker.  
Magic.  
Disgusting. Filch hated magic, too. How disgusting that Albus thought that someone with magic would be better than Filch, just because they had freaky powers. He was perfectly capable  
He forced Albus to let him keep the job.  
Anyway, if he left, who would be unnecessarily cruel to the students? And what would Mrs. Norris do? She loved terrorizing them. She would probably die of boredom.  
Argus slapped the rag against the wall. It squished grossly, sopping up stale, hours old, reeking bits of treacle tart. It was soaking wet, so streams of grayish-brown water ran down the wall like sludge. Argus’s lips twisted up into a smile/grimace. Perfectly disgusting.  
He ran through beautiful scenarios in his head - of finding the culprit and punishing them thoroughly. Perhaps he could force them to eat so much treacle tart that they threw up. If the smell of this mess was anything to go by, it wouldn’t take long. It smelled like death. It smelled like decay. Filch wrinkled up his nose, which made his entire face scrunch up like a raisin. He wished he had a clothespin or something to block the smell. It was so bad that he almost gagged, and Filch hadn’t gagged over a smell in a long time. He had smelled many, many disgusting things.  
This was almost worse than all of them.  
Finally, Argus couldn’t stand it anymore.  
He threw down his rag and prowled down the hallway, in the general direction of Dumbledore’s office. He wasn’t about to finish this job, not with everything smelling so putrid.  
Unfortunately, the smell just seemed to be getting worse as he continued. Filch scowled. He would continue until he knew what it was, but he wasn’t about to clean it up. Let the ones with magic do that. They probably had a No-Smellivosia spell, or whatever the fuck it was. Magic people and their Latin. Argus hated it with a passion.  
The smell was nearly overpowering now. He pinched his nose with his fingers, but it didn’t help. It stung his eyes and made them water. He glared at the hazy hallway ahead of him.  
He rounded the corner.  
There, in a small little heap against the wall, was the stinking carcass of Mrs. Norris. Her legs were splayed out crazily, her tail looked like a string bean. Her body had gone a light grey color as if she was fading away. Her mouth still hung open, teeth jagged and broken and yellow, like she was trying to bite something, or she had gone down fighting. Her eyes were slightly open, bright yellow and empty.  
And on the ground beside her open mouth were a few small crumbs of treacle tart.  
Filch stared. Then he let out a howl, backing away down the hallway. He turned on his heel and ran the other way, screaming at the top of his lungs.  
()()()  
“Really?” Harry asked, in disbelief. After everything, he still couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. Around this. Around the fact that he liked Draco Malfoy, and Draco Malfoy liked him. Could it really be true?  
Draco nodded, and Harry saw that he was fighting to keep a smile from slipping onto his face. His lips kept on twitching, and his eyes were shining. “Did you?” he asked, in a voice high and hoarse from telling secrets.  
“Of course,” Harry whispered.  
The owls and the feathers and the walls and ceiling disappeared, and suddenly all that Harry could see was Draco. Everything seemed different, suddenly. Everything had changed. His mind was stuck in the clouds, and he didn’t think he would ever want to climb back down.  
So this is what it feels like when people discover that magic is real, for the first time.  
Harry had never felt that. Mrs. Figg had told him that he was a wizard almost as soon as he could understand human speech. But he had heard stories, seen them published in the Daily Prophet, and he couldn’t imagine it feeling like anything but this. It was like a world of possibilities was lying in front of him. What he could say, what he could feel.  
And someone knocked on the door.  
Instantly, Harry’s heart was in his throat. The aching jolt of surprise in his stomach was so strong that it almost hurt. He spun so fast that his arm crashed into one of the owl cages, which fell to the floor with a sound like cymbals clashing together. “Ow!” Harry yelled, even though it didn’t hurt very much.  
The door swung open and Hermione was standing there, looking very awkward and very unwanted. Harry wanted to scream at her to get the fuck away.  
“Um,” she said. “I just wanted to tell you that class is starting, so…” she trailed off. “Okay. I can see that you’re both glaring at me, so I’ll just go.”  
She left, and the door swung shut behind her.  
“Well, that effectively killed the moment,” Draco said sarcastically.  
“Yup, pretty much. Class?” Harry asked.  
Draco sighed. “Fine.”  
They gathered their things and left, leaving the silence of the owlery behind them in the dust.  
()()()  
Minerva knocked on Albus’s door. Loudly.  
Beside her, Severus drew his long black robes closer around himself. Like a shield. Like wings. The lines of his face seemed more pronounced today, his eyes more sunken into his face. His hair was extra greasy, it shined like he had just stepped out of the shower.  
Beside him, Poppy twisted the edge of her white robes incessantly. She wasn’t wearing her ridiculous peaked hat, and her hair fell around her face. Surprisingly it was brown, not grey, and Minerva was led to wonder if she colored it. Either that, or the wrinkles were just a product of the stress of caring for injured students over so many years. Come to think of it, Minerva wasn’t sure how old Poppy was.  
Strange.  
It was as if taking her hair out had changed Minerva. All of a sudden, Minerva seemed to notice more about the people around her. She wasn’t so focused on being stern and serious and angry.  
Albus opened the door, and Minerva’s anger returned in waves.  
He was smiling in that ridiculous new way of his - like nothing in the world was wrong. It was infuriating! The twinkle in his eye, the jaunty angle of his bright violet wizard’s hat. Minerva had a sudden urge to punch him in the face.  
Instead, she drew herself up so that she was closer to his height, clearing her throat loudly. “Albus?” she said. “I think we need to have a talk.”  
Beside her, Snape and Poppy nodded, grimly.  
“Well now… I’m sure you…” Dumbledore tried.  
Poppy cut him off. “The rest of the staff are on their way,” she said, curtly, shouldering past him and into his office. Snape followed with a strange expression on his face - pride, could that be it? Minerva had never seen his eyes shine like that before.  
She smiled to herself, and followed, brushing past Albus. He grabbed her by the arm and she stopped without turning to face him, suddenly stone-cold. He grip was so hard that it was almost painful. He leaned forward and whispered into her ear. “Whatever you are planning, just remember that I am the headmaster of this school,” he whispered, in a voice suddenly deeper and darker that she thought she’d ever heard.  
His grip loosened, and Minerva wrenched her arm out of his grasp. Then he straightened up, and was all smiles again. “Well, don’t let it be said that Albus Dumbledore is a bad host! Tea?” he swept past her, but his eyes were still cold as ice.  
It sent chills up Minerva’s spine.  
()()()  
Pickles glared at the fire.  
He checked his watch, and growled when he saw that the time had finally come. So he cast one last look of loathing at the other house elves, and flung a bit of floo powder into the flames. Instantly, they sparked an unnatural purple. Pickles walked into the fire without hesitating, letting the cold flames dance around his body.  
And all too soon, he was standing in Malfoy Manor, in front of the Dark Lord. He didn’t have time to notice anything else. His eyes were fixed on the wizard standing in front of him, taking in the jet-black robes and the piercing yellow eyes for an instant before Pickles dropped to his knees and stared at the ground.  
“My lord,” he began, but he was cut off.  
“I’ll not waste time with pleasantries, elf,” the Dark Lord spat. His voice was thinner, higher than Pickles remembered. He always forgot how terrible his lord’s voice really was. It made his ridiculous ears want to curl in on themselves. It made his claws scratch his palms, and it made him shiver.  
“Is it done, or not?” the Dark Lord asked.  
Pickles stared at the Dark Lord’s boots. He saw Lucius Malfoy’s boots as well, a few feet away. There were a few other Death Eaters standing silently in the back. One wrong move, and he would be dead in an instant. The Dark Lord had only to lift a finger. Pickles would be nothing but a scorch mark on Malfoy’s expensive checkered carpet.  
Perhaps, if he was extremely careful, he could escape Crucio. But it was unlikely.  
“My lord, the tart was successfully given to one of Potter’s friends, who was going to give it as a gift to Potter. I knew that if I tried to give the tart to Potter, he would be suspicious. But perhaps I was too hasty in saying that I had completed my mission, because the idiot Muggle-lover somehow got the tart sprayed all over the hallway. I deeply regret giving you false information, my lord, but do not doubt that next time the deed will be done. There are other ways,” Pickles finished, with a hiss.  
“Other ways? I gave you one order. Give the boy a box of something poisoned, discreetly, so as not to raise suspicion, so that you would still be able to get rid of the Longbottom brat. I thought it would be easy. The Potter boy is greedy. He would take something without even wondering where it had come from, because he assumes that everyone else would rather suffer Crucio than harm a hair on his insolent head,” the Dark Lord practically spat out, pacing loudly around the room. Pickles could sense that he was getting angrier, because the magic in the room was starting to crackle and spark like a fire. It was getting darker and colder. Pickles could feel the tips of his fingers going numb.  
How does he know so much about the Potter boy? And why does the Potter boy matter at all? Pickles wondered. He had wondered this before. Why was he making a tart to poison Potter? Why not Longbottom first? He was the boy who lived, after all. And Potter was just… another insignificant half-blood, easily lost in the crowd of sixth years. If it wasn’t for the Dark Lord’s mission, Pickles would never have looked at him twice.  
“He matters, elf, because I say he does,” the Dark Lord said, in a voice like ice. Frigid. Sharp.  
Pickles stiffened. Now that he knew it was happening, he could feel the cold fingers of Legilimency inside his head. It felt wrong. It made his head hurt, and it made things get scrambled up in his brain. There was a presence there that wasn’t him, and Pickles didn’t know how to process that aside from sitting still and hoping for it to go away.  
The dark lord’s lips twitched, in an awful empty attempt at a smile. “You want it to go away?” he asked, silky and smooth, in a way that felt like his voice was crawling under Pickles’s skin. “If you don’t accomplish my mission, elf, I can promise you, everything will go away.” he hissed. “I don’t need you, elf. I have others within the walls of Hogwarts who could kill the boys just as easily. I have kept you because you are the least likely to be suspected, and the most competent, but now I am beginning to doubt my decision.”  
He stopped speaking, and the silence hung in the air. Pickles couldn’t see what was happening because his eyes were squeezed shut, as he tried to force the fingers of magic out of his mind.  
And he didn’t even hear the word, because it was drowned out by his own screams. His back arched backwards, and he was contorted horribly, with his hands twitching and stiff, and his eyes rolling back into his head. Everything was pierced by the howls that were being ripped from his throat, slicing their icy nails down his insides. And the monster that was tearing him apart, with pain that pressed him down into himself.  
And the black haze that was a pressure on his eyes, on his ears. He was swimming.  
And then he blacked out.  
()()()  
Blaise watched from the back of the room.  
But his eyes were carefully focused on a point just to the right of the convulsing house elf, and he focused on that little patch of carpet, counting squares so that he wouldn’t have to look.  
But he couldn’t do anything about the screaming.  
Beside him, Nott clenched and unclenched his fists, growling in his throat like a wild animal. As if he would like nothing more than to rip the elf to pieces with his bare hands. It was disturbing.  
Blaise allowed himself a silent, calming breath. He stared at the little squares dotting the carpet, counting them, letting them fade in and out of focus. One. Two. Three. He lost count. One. Two.  
The screaming arched, twisted. It cut into Blaise’s ears and made them ring. Blaise swallowed. He tapped his foot on the carpet. He dug his nails into his thumb, letting the sharp pain take over, losing himself in it.  
And Blaise’s eyes flicked back to the elf when the screaming was cut short, abruptly, and the elf lay still on the carpet. Its body was still twitching, its hands were stiff like claws.  
“Dead?” Lucius Malfoy asked.  
Voldemort turned with a swish of his bat-like robes. They reminded Blaise uncomfortably of Snape’s. And where was Snape? He hadn’t thought of that. Snape was a death eater, wasn’t he? For some reason, Blaise was sure that seeing his old professor would have made him feel moderately better, even though Snape was likely just as infatuated with the dark lord as the rest.  
“No. Not yet,” Voldemort said. He walked over to the house elf and nudged it with his boot. Blaise kept his eyes fixed firmly on the floor when Voldemort turned, casting his yellow gaze over his servants, and licking his lips. Blaise watched out of his peripheral vision, trying not to shake, as the dark lord walked closer. Slowly. With his footsteps echoing into the silence of Lucius’s study. The floor was bathed in orange firelight, and the dark lord’s robe were sweeping across the carpet. Everything was closing on Blaise.  
The world was going to end.  
And the dark lord raised a bony finger from underneath his robes, and for a split second Blaise was terrified that he was going to touch him. But, instead, the dark lord raised his hand towards Nott. Blaise raised his head just enough so that he could see.  
Voldemort reached out a finger and touched the underside of Nott’s chin, lifting it so that Nott’s eyes met his. Nott stared into Voldemort’s eyes without a trace of fear, allowing him to trace his bony knuckles along Nott’s jaw, almost lovingly. The dark lord’s gaze swept over him, lazily, those eyes burning in that pale skeleton of a face. The skin was thin, stretched taut over protruding cheekbones and veins snaking across the sides of his head. Voldemort breathed deeply out of the slits where his nose should be, closing his eyes and breathing, with Nott’s chin still held by his fingers.  
Nott didn’t move. But out of the corner of his eye, Blaise saw the faintest twitching of lips, the smallest smile.  
Nott liked this.  
Disgust burned its way into Blaise’s brain. He found himself staring at the house elf on the floor, who still hadn’t moved. And his eyes trailed their way to the people standing next to him, in a shadowed line, most of them former students of Hogwarts. Most of them below eighteen. And then his eyes traced across the shell of a man standing in front of them. He wasn’t even human. He didn’t even have a soul. When he walked into a room, the air crackled with dark magic and the windows shattered. He pointed his wand at helpless creatures and laughed when they writhed in pain.  
Blaise had known all of this for a long time. But there had never been a way to escape, never a way out. And he had never felt claustrophobic before, but oh did he feel that way now. He wanted to climb through the broken window and run and run and run and never look back.  
And he imagined himself doing that, and being picked off by a well-aimed killing curse before he had gone ten feet. It was ludicrous.  
Blaise never cried.  
But if he were a lesser being, a weaker one, then perhaps he would have right then.  
Instead, Blaise stood with his back ramrod straight and his head bowed, and didn’t blink when Voldemort let go of Nott’s chin and moved to stand in front of him.  
And Blaise realized that he must have been probing Nott’s mind with Legilimency. And Blaise nearly smiled, because he was good at this. He was an expert. He didn’t feel. He didn’t think. He was a stone, and Voldemort would find nothing.  
Before Voldemort could even touch his face, Blaise had buried everything underneath shadows and shadows. He kept his mind carefully blank, and then he let anger rise to the surface. It was anger at his father, at his circumstances, at the dark lord. But one anger can be easily mistaken for another, and anger was valuable to the dark lord. And next he let awe rise up, spilling over into his mind. Voldemort was powerful, he was strong. The very air flamed with his presence. And Blaise could appreciate that, in a twisted sort of way.  
Loyalty.  
A thinly veiled form of love.  
So Blaise let love rise to the surface. Love.  
Who did he love?  
“Tomorrow. Detention. If you’re still alive,” he whispered into her ear.  
And he felt her shiver against him, and felt her breath on the side of his cheek, warming him.  
And it didn’t make sense, but something had broken in Blaise just then. And he didn’t even remember why he had done it, saved her and Malfoy. It would only serve to hurt him, to put him at risk. He was a Slytherin, and self-preservation was always his first priority. Or had been, until they walked through the door with their ridiculous, flimsy shield shimmering around them, and Blaise saw the fear in their eyes when he scraped his manicured nails across it, making it light up like a candle.  
And he saved them, as if he had planned it.  
Saved her.  
Saved Pansy Parkinson.  
Love.  
And suddenly Blaise was on the floor. He head hit dully against the wall, and stars floated in front of his eyes. He realized, with panic rising up into his throat, that he couldn’t move. Voldemort was staring down at him, from eyes cold as ice.  
Blaise’s heart pounded in his chest.  
Idiot.  
Idiot.  
Idiot.  
And Voldemort lifted a bony, cloaked arm, and his wand was pointed at Blaise’s heart, and it glowed green.  
He screamed. “AVADA-”  
“NO!”  
Blaise watched as his father pushed through the dark crowd of cloaked death eaters to throw himself in front of him. His hood fell and Blaise choked back a strangled cry when his father’s eyes met his.  
“KEDAVRA!”  
His father’s eyes faded to glass. He twisted in the air as his body spasmed, sparking with green light. And he fell to the ground, his body landing in a dark heap on the checkered carpet in front of him, bathed in the light of the dying fire. And Blaise backed away, shrinking against the wall. The others stared at him, Blaise caught Nott looking at him with his mouth hanging open, and the panic evident in his eyes. But none of them moved when Voldemort raised his wand.  
“CRUCIO!”  
And Blaise screamed, a horrible, ragged scream. He convulsed on the floor, with his back arching and his legs kicking out at nothing. He threw his head back in a shriek of agony and it hit the wall with a dull thud.  
An explosion.  
The window shattered.  
He clawed at the wall, ripping paint off with his fingernails. Tearing pieces of checkered carpet out of the floor, and they kept tearing, in stripes. Leaving bare patches of floor, spreading all the way to the fireplace, spiraling and twisting and darting in all directions, sending sawdust up in clouds. His screams climbed, getting higher and higher until the death eaters were holding their hands over their ears because they couldn’t stand to listen.  
Wandless magic, crackling like fire and glowing green.  
And Blaise knocked.  
He was standing somewhere warm, and for some reason he was oddly out of breath, even though he was sure that he hadn’t been running. He was also standing in front of a door.  
Blaise glanced to the right and to the left. He was standing in the middle of an oddly familiar hallway that seemed to stretch on and on into darkness. There was one lit wall sconce next to the door he was standing in front of, and the rest were missing. Shadows crept down the hallway, as if waiting for him to stray into their reach, but Blaise stood in a pool of flickering light.  
“Coming!” someone shouted.  
And there was the click of a door unlocking, and it swung open. Blaise stepped aside to let it pass. And there was Albus Dumbledore, wearing a ridiculous nightcap and purple robes. He had bags under his eyes and his every wrinkle seemed more pronounced than usual (leaving him looking slightly like a raisin), but he was still smiling and twinkling as always.  
“Oh, hello, professor,” Blaise said, then proceeded to stand still in the doorway, listening.  
Someone was screaming. He was sure of it.  
Blaise shot a glance down the hallway, but nothing moved aside from the flickering light. “Do you hear that?” he asked Dumbledore.  
“You knocked,” Dumbledore said. “What do you want, Blaise? Why are you here?” he said, as if Blaise hadn’t spoken at all.  
Blaise forgot about the screaming. “No… I didn’t knock.”  
He was sure that he hadn’t knocked.  
“Well, in that case, you will just have to stay in the doorway. I don’t let people in if they don’t knock,” Dumbledore said cheerfully, joking lightly. Blaise smiled.  
And the shadows moved.  
Blaise jerked his head to look when he caught the movement out of the corner of his eyes. They were moving. Stalking around in circles, like hungry monsters. And getting closer, slowly, closing in. Circling around him like sharks.  
Panic.  
“Let me in!” Blaise cried, trying to push past Dumbledore to get inside. But he held him back with an iron-grip, with eyes still sparkling as if this was a joke.  
“You didn’t knock!” he said, smiling crazily with icy blue eyes. “You can’t come in if you don’t knock! Didn’t your father ever teach you your manners?”  
Blaise raised his fist, and knocked furiously on the door, but Dumbledore didn’t move.  
The screaming got louder.  
And Dumbledore didn’t move. “You can’t knock now,” he explained. “That doesn’t count. Come back tomorrow and try again.”  
The shadows licked Blaise’s feet, sending agony shooting up into his legs, making him fall with a cry to his knees. Blaise supported himself awkwardly against the doorframe, trying to push past Dumbledore with all of his strength, watching the shadows creep closer.  
Dumbledore just laughed. “Run along, Blaise. I’m sure you don’t need anything here. Run along to your father, he can take care of you. Maybe he’ll even teach you how to knock properly,” he said with a twinkle.  
The light flickered, growing dimmer.  
The shadows circled closer, and now Blaise was pressed up against the doorframe, knees shaking, staring at the darkness.  
He felt hands on his shoulders.  
And he turned just in time to see the twinkle in Dumbledore’s eyes as he pushed him into the shadows. “Have a nice night, Blaise!” he cried.  
Blaise screamed and screamed as the shadows overwhelmed him.  
The sconce went out.  
Agony.  
()()()  
“I must go,” Severus announced. His forearm was burning uncomfortably. He pressed his other hand against it, which he knew would relieve the pain slightly, but it still made him fidget awkwardly, made him want to do something to distract himself.  
Dumbledore had the audacity to look sad about this. “But you just got here! And I’ve made tea!”  
Severus gritted his teeth. “Really, Dumbledore. I must go.”  
And then Dumbledore nodded. “Oh. I see. Of course, Severus.”  
He winked.  
Severus allowed the confusion to show on his face, in the crease between his eyebrows. And then he turned with a swish of his robes. He stopped in front of Pomfrey. “I really am sorry I couldn’t stay,” he whispered wryly, making her roll her eyes. “But duty calls.”  
She inhaled sharply. “You don’t mean…”  
Severus’s lips twitched in a bit of a smile. “See you tomorrow.”  
She pursed her lips. “See you.”  
And Severus left, closing the door behind him. He let out a sigh of relief that he didn’t have to sit through that conversation. And then the burning of his dark mark reminded him that he didn’t get to sit on the couch in front of the fire in his office and grade reports angrily, and much too harshly.  
He wondered why the dark lord required him. And decided that he didn’t really want to know.  
Then he heard screaming.  
Awful, ugly screaming. Ridiculous screaming. Severus wrinkled his nose. Filch.  
The man rounded the corner a split second later, shouting some nonsense about a dead cat. Severus hoped that it was true. He hated the creature with a passion.  
Before he left, Severus scrawled a quick note on a piece of parchment. No classes today. And he pasted it on the door to his classroom.  
Then he took a deep breath.  
He touched the little bracelet that Albus had given him, many years ago. It allowed him to Apparate in and out of Hogwarts, and it was a constant reminder of how much Albus trusted him. Severus could hardly believe that that was the same man currently sitting in his office.  
He sighed, and Disapparated in the middle of the hallway with a pop.  
()()()  
Next: Legilimency and ice skating. Oh, and the next chapter is my favorite so far.  
Please review!


	20. Nineteen - The Other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FREAKING LOVE THIS CHAPTER!   
> AHHHHH  
> I think it's easily my favorite chapter to write so far. And I hope you love it TOO! If you do, then reviEWWWW! (Haha, I rhymed.)  
> Thanks to Sailor Silver Ladybug for freaking out with me, haha. She's amazing.  
> Goodbye.

Nineteen.  
The Other.  
()()()  
"Albus," Minerva began. "I think we need to have a word with you. And I think that this conversation has been much overdue," she sat down without asking, and Albus sat down across from her, putting his elbows on his desk and lazily popping a lemon drop into his mouth..  
Poppy remained standing, watching them glare at each other from across the desk.  
Suddenly, she felt like she wasn't supposed to be part of this conversation.  
"Um," she said. "Should I just…"  
Minerva glanced at her. "No. Stay, Poppy. I don't trust him."  
Dumbledore watched her from behind his half-moon spectacles, seeming almost amused. "Since when, Minerva? What changed?"  
Poppy didn't sit.  
Minerva glared at him, then rummaged around in her pockets and found a hair tie. She pulled her hair up into a tight bun and fastened it.  
"Poppy," Albus said, turning in his chair to face her. "I think that you may go. I think that Minerva is the one who has a problem with me, and we should talk about it alone."  
Minerva glanced at her and nodded, once.  
Poppy smiled shakily, turned, and ran out of the room.  
()()()  
"Albus," Minerva began, clearing her throat and folding her hands on his desk. "Lately, you have been a bit different than usual. You haven't been watching over your students as you used to. You haven't seemed to care about anything. You've been… preoccupied. Is there a reason for this change, or…"  
"People change, Minerva!" Albus declared, leaning back casually in his chair, hands folded behind his head and feet on the desk. "And, instead of complaining to me, haven't you ever considered that… well, perhaps I thought that you were competent enough to perform some of my duties for me? Perhaps I'm getting old, Minerva! You should be able to handle some of my work! Don't you agree?"  
He narrowed his eyes.  
Minerva sputtered. "Of… of course, Albus. I can handle it. But…"  
"Well, it's settled, then!" Albus said, smiling crazily.  
Then he took his feet off the desk and leaned towards her, with that same dark, dangerous look in his eyes. Minerva swallowed, backing away almost without thinking, which made Albus smile. "And haven't you ever considered, Minerva, that perhaps I am dealing with things far greater than taking care of this school? We are in the middle of a war, Minerva! Things will change. People will change. You will just have to get used to it."  
He stood, as if the conversation was over. "Lemon drop?"  
Minerva glared at him. "No, Albus…"  
"Well. Then I think you have some teaching to do! Transfiguration, isn't that your subject?" he asked, cheerfully.  
Minerva glared at him. She stood, adjusted her bun, and stalked out of his office.  
Only to be met by a crying, screaming Filch with a running nose and treacle tart dotting his robes like slimy bogeys. He was an absolute mess, with his eyes leaking all over his face and his hair filthy and stringy as if it hadn't been washed in a week.  
And he smelled like death.  
"What the hell, Argus?!" Minerva exclaimed, backing away and pinching her nose with her fingers. Albus appeared behind her. He pushed past Minerva (she glared at him, but he didn't notice) and stood in front of Filch.  
"Mrs… Mrs…" he bawled, collapsing in front of Albus and snotting all over his shoes. Albus jumped away, looking disgusted.  
"Mrs WHAT, Filch? Spit it out!" he cried, pushing Filch's face away with his foot. Filch sprawled onto the floor, clutching at his knees and getting drool all over the floor.  
"Mrs. Norris is d… d…"  
"Dead?" Albus finished. "Is she dead?" he sounded extremely happy about this. Minerva shot him a look of purest loathing, but he pretended not to notice.  
"Ye-e-ess…." Filch sobbed. "Treacle… treacle tart poisoned her!"  
Albus stopped.  
"Oh. Yes," he said. "I see. Minerva, cancel my plans for the meeting. I need to be somewhere, and I must be there immediately."  
"But Albus, the school-"  
"I don't give a DAMN about the bloody school, Minerva!" Albus shouted.  
Minerva gasped.  
And Albus stepped over the sobbing, drooling Filch and disappeared down the hallway.  
()()()  
When Blaise came to, he was still lying on the floor, and he still couldn't move. Everything was darkness, the only movement was the shifting of shadows and his heart pounding in his chest.  
And that was all he saw before something landed on his stomach, making pain explode in his already broken body, squeezing the breath out of his lungs. Blaise folded in on himself, and collapsed when the weight left him, wheezing hoarsely, gasping pathetically.  
Everything hurt.  
"Ignore him, Lucius."  
Lucius grunted, and Blaise heard the swish of his robes as he turned, and he heard the click of his heeled boots on the floor as he walked over to his master. Blaise saw, through hazy, squinted eyes, Lucius's knees on the floor. His breathing was sporadic, his chest hurt like hell, but Blaise focused on staring at the checkered carpet. If he was to live, he would have to listen. He couldn't black out now.  
Voldemort sighed, exhaling softly into the dark air of Lucius's lounge. The bottom of his long black robes sweeped the floor, and the tips of his black boots were just visible from where Blaise lay curled on the floor, clutching his stomach.  
"We can't kill them. It would be much too heavy of a loss," he said, in his high-pitched voice that ground Blaise's mind to a paste. Blaise buried his face in the carpet, his hands grasping at nothing, waiting for the pain of the voice to go away.  
But Voldemort kept talking. "But I will not tolerate disloyal followers."  
"Of course not, my lord," Lucius said.  
Voldemort began to pace. "Nott will be rewarded. And his son. The rest must be punished."  
"Of course, my lord."  
"What would you suggest, Severus?"  
Blaise froze.  
Snape was here.  
Blaise squinted into the darkness hovering above the carpet, and he could just make out another pair of boots beyond Voldemort's. And another pair of long, black robes. Blaise dared to raise his head just enough to catch a glimpse of him.  
Pale. Sallow-faced. Just the same, except now his head was bowed towards Voldemort, and strands of greasy black hair hung down in front of his face. And then he raised his head, and Blaise had the strange thought that instead of asking unfair questions, Snape was now giving unfair answers.  
"Whatever you wish, my lord. Speak," he paused.  
Something poked at Blaise's brain. It felt like Legilimency, and Blaise just barely pushed down the panic before it leapt to the surface. He was able to keep his thoughts hidden, able to push down his emotions. He was a blank canvas.  
He lay there in the dark, breathing slowly, waiting for it to disappear.  
And then it was gone, and Blaise found himself breathing shakily into the carpet. He wrapped his arms tighter around his middle, curling into himself like a broken toy.  
"And it will be done," Snape finished. He followed Voldemort with his eyes as the dark lord paced around the room, stalking around in angry circles, yellow eyes like flashlights in the darkness of Lucius's study.  
"Of course it will, of course it will. But ideas! Give me an idea."  
"Torture. Hanging. Slowly peeling their skin off like a banana," Bellatrix practically sang as she danced into the room, with her skirt twisting around her legs and her wild hair going in all direction.  
Internally, Blaise shuddered.  
"Lucius. Cast a silencing charm. We wouldn't want them to overhear our conversation."  
"Yes, my lord."  
And the world went silent.  
He looked around himself, moving his head just enough to see. The forms of the other Slytherins lay sprawled on the floor. He recognized Greengrass, Crabbe, and Goyle. So they didn't pass the test either.  
Interesting.  
Greengrass's eyes met his. Blaise froze. And then, nearly imperceptibly, she nodded.  
Okay. So we have some form of a truce.  
Blaise focused on his thoughts, letting his mind speak. Trying to calm down. He usually wasn't like this, usually he was perfectly calm. And on the outside, he was. But it was something about the darkness of this room, and the closeness of the dark lord.  
How surprising. Blaise didn't feel completely at ease when he was ten feet away from Voldemort.  
But it was still unnerving. He was used to being in control of his emotions. He didn't like this feeling.  
Blaise watched from the ground, following their conversation, wishing he could read lips. They looked like upright shadows in the darkness of the study, but Voldemort's eyes still shone like lightning.  
And then, a small movement attracted Blaise's attention.  
Snape's hand.  
Clenching, twitching. And turning towards where Blaise was lying on the floor.  
"Peer pressure can be a bitch. Why else would children climb out of windows in the dead of night?"  
It was Bellatrix's voice.  
Blaise could hear them again.  
Snape.  
Wandless magic.  
But how did that make any sense?  
Blaise's eyes flicked back towards where Greengrass was lying on the ground. They just watched each other, staring into each other's eyes warily. Black on dusty brown. And Blaise lay perfectly still while Greengrass fidgeted. He was just another shadow, lying on the checkered carpet. She was moving. The sound of fabric rubbing against fabric. Her hands moved. She even scratched her arm.  
Blaise smirked.  
Inferior minds. How pitiful.  
He was still stronger.  
"The peer pressure of one against the cowardice of four. Seems unlikely," Lucius said.  
"Unlikely, unless their cowardice had not been discovered," Snape replied. "If it had not been for our lord's use of Legilimency, they would still be pretending. Luckily, he was able to… catch them in the act."  
His words were quiet, barely audible, but they seemed to echo throughout the study.  
"And Nott? What of him? And what of the others? Crabbe, Goyle, Greengrass?" Lucius practically demanded, his voice taking a dangerous edge.  
Voldemort rounded on him. Blaise saw his feet stop, saw him turn on his heel, and he saw Lucius back away. "Remember your place, Lucius. I will deal with them."  
Greengrass stared at Blaise, her mouth hanging wide open.  
Blaise tried to find a way to communicate with her, a way to tell her to shut her damn mouth. But eventually she must have realized, because she closed it and turned away, back into the shadows.  
Blaise swallowed hard.  
Those eyes…  
And the body of his father, falling in a heap on the floor.  
Blaise clenched his fists.  
"Lucy, your carpet is burning again," Bellatrix said, in her sing-song voice that made Blaise want to strangle her.  
Wait, what?  
Oh god.  
He saw Lucius spin around. "What…?"  
Blaise unclenched his fists. He took deep, slow breaths.   
And he saw Snape's hand twitch.  
"No, it isn't," Snape said. Calmly. Casually. It was almost impressive.  
"Oh," Bellatrix said. "Sorry."  
Voldemort began to pace again. "Go. Get out. Both of you. I need to speak to Severus."  
()()()  
"No class."  
There were a crowd of students around the door to the potions classroom, and the news spread like wildfire. Each whispering to the next, until it had reached the whole school.  
No class, because Snape isn't here.  
No class, because Snape is sick.  
Because Snape is dying.  
Because Snape is dead.  
Because Snape never misses his class. Never. Never ever. So it was really the only logical explanation (And, besides, Snape being dead was a rather nice explanation).  
Harry and Draco passed a chattering group of Hufflepuffs gathered around Ernie MacMillan. Draco saw Harry roll his eyes. "Jesus Christ," he said. "Will they never get tired of listening to that idiot?"  
Draco laughed, and shook his head.  
And, because there was nothing else to do, they walked outside into the frigid air that chilled their bones, into the snowflakes that were whipped by the wind into their faces and hair. The sky was covered by a blanket of grey clouds, and the trees looked like skeletons.  
The lake was frozen.  
Harry looked at it, and then back at Draco, and then back at the lake. He gestured to it with his eyes. He raised his eyebrows. And then he sighed exaggeratedly and grabbed Draco's hands.  
And pulled him all the way to the ice.  
Transfigured ice skates, pulling them on. And suddenly they were spinning around in circles, and falling, and laughing so loudly that it was a wonder no one heard.  
()()()  
"Happiness," the dark lord hissed.  
Severus kept his head bowed. He knew that Voldemort would elaborate. There was no need to go around asking questions like a fool. Severus drew his robes around himself like wings, feeling somehow protected by the black cloth. He let his hair dangle down in front of his face like some sort of shield from Voldemort's piercing, flashlight eyes.  
He really had lost his edge.  
He had been in that damned school for too long, complaining about the headmaster and stealing glances at Pomfrey. That was the problem. He had left his nerve in the bloody great hall.  
"I can feel his happiness," the dark lord hissed.  
Severus suppressed a sigh. Always this same, unnecessarily long monologue about the boy-who-lived's obnoxious feelings, and how badly Voldemort wanted to strangle him to death.  
"It scratches the inner chambers of my mind," he growled.  
Severus very nearly rolled his eyes. Inner chambers of his mind?  
What?  
"It peels the eyelids away from my eyes."  
Dear god, spare me.  
"But that is not what I wished to speak with you about, Severus."  
Severus jerked his head up, in spite of himself. "My lord?" he asked, staring into Voldemort's piercing yellow eyes. It was eerie. He looked like a snake.  
Snake.  
"Sit," the dark lord offered, gesturing towards one of Lucius's ridiculously expensive leather armchairs.  
Severus sat, taking the moment when the dark lord's back was turned to glance in the direction of the four Slytherins on the floor. They looked like shadows.  
Blaise's eyes were open.  
He wouldn't have noticed if it weren't for the strange way that they glittered. His eyes were nearly black, but the moon, shining suddenly through Lucius's window, reflected off of them, making them shine in the darkness.  
Severus made no sign that he had seen.  
But he sent the fingers of Legilimency out, again, towards Blaise. Into his mind he crept, silently. Blaise wouldn't even know that he was there. And Severus gave no sign, his face was a perfect mask. The dark lord would never guess.  
Multitasking was Severus's specialty.  
And Voldemort could boast about being the "most powerful dark wizard," but power meant nothing if you didn't know how to use it. And oh, did Severus know how to use his power.  
The dark lord sat across from Severus. He transfigured a pillow into a glass of wine with a wave of his hand, and made another one for Severus. Severus accepted it, and watched as Voldemort took a long, deep sip.  
"My plan," he began. "I wish to talk with you, Severus. About my plan."  
Oh god, Blaise thought.  
Severus smiled wryly. A wry smile was easily mistaken for an evil smile, and the dark lord nodded his approval. "Now that those simple-minded fools are gone, I can tell you what part you will play in all of this."  
Severus bowed his head. "Whatever you wish me to do, I will carry it out, my lord."  
Voldemort waved his glass around dismissively, spilling a bit of wine in the process. It landed on the carpet, leaving a bloodstain on the floor. "Of course you will. Look at me, Severus. I prefer to see your eyes."  
Severus looked up.  
He could hear Blaise's fast-paced breathing in his ears.  
"Anastasia," Voldemort said.  
Plum? Are they talking about her? Blaise wondered into Severus's head.  
"Anastasia Plum?" Severus asked, just for clarification.  
Voldemort smiled. "The very one."  
He looked like a snake.  
He looks like a snake.  
Severus swallowed. He breathed a slightly shaky breath. And he said, "What of her, my lord? She is only an insignificant child. I have seen her in my classes. She is useless. Surely of no use to you, either. The Potter boy hates her, Longbottom doesn't seem to interact with her…"  
She collapses in the middle of hallways…  
Why her?  
"That's unimportant," Voldemort said, swinging his glass around dangerously.  
Yes it IS! Blaise practically screamed into Severus's head.  
Severus winced, but Voldemort didn't notice. "Of course not, my lord. What do you want with her, then? Your wish is my command."  
Voldemort sighed. "Well, perhaps it is important. You see, Severus... " he sighed again, rather dramatically, actually. "She has… an infatuation with treacle tart."  
And Voldemort began to laugh.  
Just then, there was a knock on the door.  
"Come in," Voldemort growled, quite irritably.  
Bellatrix poked her head in. "Black is here, my lord."  
"Black?" Voldemort hissed. "Tell him he can go. Tell him… Severus will fill him in on all the details."  
Black? And Snape knows?  
Details?  
Blaise's thoughts echoed Severus's perfectly.  
Voldemort was so damn secretive about the identities of his death eaters, that Severus hadn't even been aware that there was a Black here. But he wasn't surprised in the least. Vile, pathetic excuses for human beings, the whole lot of them.  
Why does he look so angry?  
Severus glanced at Voldemort. But… he didn't look angry. No, he was just staring at the fire.  
Oh. Severus clenched his fists, and quickly shoved his mask back on. Did he really hate the Blacks that much? He had to get his anger under control. He couldn't be so obsessed with his childhood grudge that he threw his self control out the window.  
And he mentally cursed himself for being so obvious. So obvious, that even Blaise had noticed. It was embarrassing.  
"You were saying, my lord?" Severus asked, trying to draw Voldemort away from the flames and towards more revealing conversation. "About the Plum girl?"  
"Ah. Of course," he turned back towards Severus, and took another long sip from his glass. Severus saw his yellow eyes sweep across the room, and land briefly on the four students… ex-students in the shadows, slumped on the floor like forgotten sacks of potatoes.  
Voldemort smiled.  
Severus forgot to breathe.  
Then, suddenly, there was a coldness on his legs, and Severus realized that he had spilled his wine, because he hand had been shaking so badly. He was losing his edge. He was losing his mind.  
What's wrong with Snape's hand?  
Good questions, Blaise. Sometimes, your attention to detail just astounds me, Severus thought, dryly.  
"The Plum girl," Voldemort said. Severus had almost forgotten that they were having a conversation, he had been so focused on Blaise's thoughts and his own idiotic actions. "Severus, firstly, I would have you know that Hogwarts is entirely under my control."  
Seems likely, Severus thought.  
Blaise snorted, but it was strange. Almost a thought-snort. Severus nearly wished that he had never established this connection.  
"You do not believe me," Voldemort commented, taking a sip.  
Severus's hand jerked, and droplets of wine spilled over the edge of his glass, landing like a bloodstain on the carpet. He built his walls back up instantly, blocking his emotions completely. But he had slipped. Oh god, this was not a good day by any means.  
Severus opened his mouth to argue, but Voldemort held up his hand to stop him. "No matter. I understand. I have not told you much of my plan, Severus, but I feel that now is the time. You are to be involved, after all. It is only prudent that you know. Stay, and all shall be revealed to you."  
()()()  
"It did WHAT?!" Ginny bellowed into Ron's ear when he told her.  
"It killed Filch's cat," Ron repeated patiently.  
Ginny looked like she was going to explode. "You're telling ME, that you had some POISONED treacle tart and then I THREW it at the wall instead of giving it to HARRY POTTER? I could have POISONED HIM, and I missed my CHANCE!"  
She was slowly getting redder. Her face looked like a tomato.  
Luckily, they were outside in the middle of the snow, so it was unlikely that anyone would hear them. Otherwise, they might have had to have some awkward conversations. But Ron still said, "Shh!" instinctively.  
Ginny glared at him. "Well, who gave it to you? Go get some more!"  
Ron sighed. "Gin, I'm not going to poison anyone…"  
But now Ginny was looking curious. She considered him for a moment, and then said, slowly, "Ron… who did give it to you? Because… it could be the same person who…"  
"Poisoned the cake," Ron finished.  
The silence was as thick as the snow on the ground. Ron stared up at the grey sky, wishing that he could just disappear into the clouds. He didn't want to get involved! He wasn't a hero. He wasn't good at anything.  
But all he would have to do was tell Dumbledore.  
He wouldn't have to be a hero.  
Ron looked at Ginny. All of the anger had faded from her eyes, and now she just looked worried and scared. Ron ran a hand through his tangled mess of hair, only making it stick up more, and in weirder ways.  
"It was a house elf," he said.  
Ginny scoffed. "Sure it was. Ron, house elves don't make poisoned food! They…"  
"I know, just listen," Ron interrupted, trying to remember his conversation with the elf. "He wasn't… normal. He spoke English too well, and he was bigger than all the others, and…"  
"RON!" Ginny shouted, sounding angry again. "The house elf probably made the treacle tart, and someone else must have put the poison in! It's the only thing that makes sense. Because house elves don't poison people!" she snapped, poking him hard in the chest.  
"Ow," Ron protested.  
"Oh, shut up. Let me do the thinking," she said. "You just… stand there."  
Ron was a bit angry about being told to "just stand there," but he didn't argue. Ginny was smarter, and she was probably right. Perhaps Ron had been wrong, and the house elf hadn't spoken English eerily well, or had a half-crazed glint in its eyes…  
It was probably just Ron's instinctive mistrust of house elves that was leading him to think this way. He had never liked them, after all. He considered them inferior, but sometimes wondered what would happen if they decided to rise up and… revolt.  
What if…  
Something nudged at Ron's mind. An idea. A really, really good idea. A scarily, probably accurate idea.  
"Why couldn't it have been the house elf?" he asked.  
Ginny groaned.  
"The last time, it was a cake. And… the house elves baked it. No one saw anyone else going down to the kitchens. There was no one else there, Ginny. Just the elves! And this time it was the treacle tart. Always food. Ginny…"  
"Well, then you go on and tell Dumbledore that!" she snapped. "And then you'll come back and tell me about how he laughed in your ugly face! Go on! TELL HIM!" she screamed.  
"Shh!"  
"Don't shush me."  
"Gin…"  
"Don't GIN me, either!"  
Then Ginny stopped and just glared at him, looking slightly out of breath, with her arms crossed.  
"Sorry," Ron muttered.  
"Good. So, you stand there, and I'll think. I'll come up with something. It's on the tip of my tongue…"  
"No. I'm sorry, because I'm going to go and tell Dumbledore," Ron said.  
He smirked at the look of pure outrage on her face, and then he turned on his heel and walked back to the castle.  
()()()  
Harry was spinning.  
And he would never stop.  
Spinning, without a care in the world. Spinning, because nothing could be wrong when he was here with Draco. Holding his hands and skating ridiculously around in circles, and watching Draco's Gryffindor scarf fly up into the air like a kite. Looking at the little snowflakes in his blonde hair, and feeling his heart beat when their eyes met, like electricity. And smiling, because Draco was smiling, and he looked so nice when he smiled.  
Harry was in heaven.  
And then they let go, and they both went flying in opposite directions. Harry fell flat on his face, but Draco leapt into the air like a fucking gazelle, twisted, and landed perfectly on the ice, with even his Gryffindor scarf in place.  
Harry scowled. "Show off," he muttered, as Draco proceeded to skate around in elegant circles, with his hands folded behind his back, and his hair blowing in the wind. He smirked.  
And then he skated closer to Harry, and held out his hand. "Need a little help there?" he asked smugly. Harry glared at him, but accepted the hand anyway and allowed Draco to pull him up. There was no other way he would ever have gotten to his feet, after all. He had skated a bit with the Dursleys and Mrs. Figg, but he had definitely forgotten everything.  
Draco didn't let go of his hand. Instead, he started to skate away, pulling Harry behind him. He even skated backwards, so that their eyes met, and Harry glared at the smirk still on Draco's face. "You're obnoxious, you know that?" he said, even as Draco sped up, and Harry gripped his hands tighter.  
"My specialty," Draco smirked. "I would bow obnoxiously, too, but if I did that you would end up flat on your face."  
Harry glared at him.  
"You're not doing too badly, you know. I'm not just pulling you, you're sort of keeping up with me," Draco said.  
Harry kept glaring. "Wow, that makes me feel so much better."  
Suddenly, Draco stopped. Harry didn't know how to stop, so he kept skating and slammed right into Draco. They fell backwards (conveniently, they had reached the edge of the lake, so they fell onto snow) and Harry landed sprawled on top of him, practically eating his Gryffindor scarf, and blushing profusely.  
And the air was cold, and the snow was falling, and Draco only raised an eyebrow at Harry before pulling him closer by his Gryffindor scarf and pressing their lips together. Harry was taken by surprise, but he didn't hesitate to respond, smiling into Draco's lips. His entire body tingled all over, and Draco's hair was tickling his ear, and the side of his head was burning where it had been rubbed in the snow.  
Harry didn't care.  
His heart was beating, and he felt warm all over. Like a mug of butterbeer, or a sweet-scented candle. Their noses brushed awkwardly, and they both started to laugh. Draco's eyes were smiling, and Harry could just tell that he was so happy, which made him happy, too. They rolled around like two awkward snowmen - with their coats and their scarves making them looked like they'd both gained twenty pounds - and Harry got a faceful of snow, but he didn't care.  
And then Harry pulled away, just enough to whisper, "I think I like ice skating a lot," he whispered.  
And Draco laughed, and grabbed a fistful of snow and sat up to shove it down the back of Harry's coat. Harry screamed like a banshee and tackled him to the ground, and they wrestled in between kisses, laughing the entire time.  
()()()  
As soon as Ron left, Ginny heard it.  
Laughter.  
And how dare someone be laughing when her brother was such an idiot and the treacle tart was poisoned and her old boyfriend was a complete jackass?  
So Ginny marched across the snow towards the sound.  
It led her to the frozen lake, with the squid's tentacles billowing around beneath the shimmering ice. The sun had peered through the clouds, and lit it up like a shining mirror.  
And there, in the snow beside the lake, were Harry and Draco, skating badly on the ice and laughing like complete idiots. Didn't they understand that there were bigger things at stake? That now wasn't the time for laughing?  
And then Ginny noticed, with anger rising up in her chest, that they were holding hands. And skating. And Harry was smiling. They were both fucking smiling. What the hell was this? Had he cheated on her with Draco? With a BOY? Was he gay? Had he been pretending to like her the whole time? Was she no better than the son of a fucking DEATH EATER?  
And Ginny marched forward, with a shout, a scream of the tip of her tongue. She would make him pay for this.  
And then they fell down together in the snow.  
And kissed.  
And Ginny watched, and she opened her mouth to scream, to interrupt them. But no sound came out when she saw the smile on his face. The way it lit up his eyes as they rolled around in the snow, still laughing their heads off.  
He had never smiled like that when he kissed her.  
In fact, he hadn't smiled like that in a long time.  
And instead of marching down the hill, Ginny found herself backing away. And then she could hear, once again, the crunching of her boots in the snow, and her own breathing in her ears. Not just their peals of laughter, loud as bells. And she could feel her teeth, biting into her lip, and the snow melting on her forehead, and the numbness in the tips of her fingers. It was like she had been flying, and suddenly she had fallen to the ground.  
Something hurt. Something ached, behind her eyes.  
It had been a year ago. And, sure, she had been hurt. Sure, she had cried. But it had been a year. And he had started dating Anastasia, but she had just assumed that he had latched on to the first convenient replacement, and that Stasia was no substitute for her. She had assumed that he would come crawling back and beg her to kiss him.  
But… perhaps she hadn't made him happy. Perhaps it wasn't his fault, after all. Perhaps he just didn't like her. And as she watched them roll around laughing and smiling in the snow, that explanation seemed more and more likely.  
Because he had never smiled that way with her.  
Or Anastasia.  
And Ginny felt like the ground was about to fall from beneath her feet.  
So she turned around, with tears stinging her eyes, and walked the other way. And only when their laughter had finally faded in the distance, did the first tear begin to fall.  
()()()  
"I have so many within Hogwarts. I could take it in a moment."  
No, he couldn't. The professors are there. Dumbledore and the rest, Blaise thought, hoping that it was true.  
Voldemort was staring at the fire again. It reflected off of his skin vibrantly, making him look like he was on fire. And Snape waited patiently behind him, like a shadow with his robes wrapped around himself and his greasy hair hanging over his face. He didn't move a muscle.  
It's bloody impressive.  
And Blaise thought he saw the shadow of a smile flicker across Snape's face. He must be imagining things.  
"But, that is not my goal. You see, Severus, if I did take Hogwarts, the Aurors and the Order would be there in a second, not to mention Scrimgeour's army of Ministry workers. They are preparing for an attack like this, expecting it. And perhaps we could destroy them, but I will not count on a perhaps to bring me the Wizarding World," he lifted his hand to the fire, examining his fingers, and then, suddenly, he clenched his fist.  
Blaise heard a whimper from beside him. It was Greengrass. He glared at her.  
She's such an idiot, he thought bitterly. Can't keep quiet for two seconds.  
And Snape's hand moved.  
Blaise could feel the silencing charm settle over him, having used it so often to spy on Nott and his posse when they were discussing awful things to do to someone. It just made him feel slightly numb, like he was farther away from everything that was happening. There was no mistaking it, Severus Snape had cast a silencing charm on them.  
How would he know to do that?  
And then it clicked. Legilimency.  
The why and the how weren't important. Snape seemed to be helping him, and this was his chance. To communicate. To say something. Blaise nearly reached out… before he stopped himself.  
Stupid.  
Stupid.  
Stupid.  
He couldn't trust him completely, not yet. Sure, he had heard rumors that Snape was some sort of double agent, secretly working for Dumbledore, and perhaps they were true, but…  
He couldn't count on a perhaps.  
And Blaise was good at keeping himself from thinking. Just don't feel, don't be. He was just a stone, lying in the shadowed corners of Lucius Malfoy's study, behind a leather armchair.  
"How many others?" Snape asked, quietly. "You said there are others in Hogwarts. I have not noticed any of them."  
Voldemort turned with a sweep his robes to face Snape. "Are you sure? Think, Severus. My followers have already been at work within the walls of the castle. The signs should be obvious to one such as yourself."  
The cake, Blaise thought, accidentally. But he was so caught off guard by what he had realized, that he hadn't been able to hold it back. The cake. Of course! It wasn't just anyone who had put potion into the cake, it had been a death eater.  
But, if that was true… then their plan must have failed. The potion made everyone go after Granger, Potter, Malfoy and Pansy, instead of Longbottom. And Voldemort wanted to kill Longbottom, right? That was his whole plan. And, if not Longbottom, then Dumbledore or McGonagall. Not four seemingly random students, even two who were the children of death eaters…  
Or, was that why? Was he trying to kill Draco and Pansy?  
Blaise was still a stone, so he didn't feel the panic that was undoubtedly waiting beneath the surface.  
But he knew it was there.  
"The cake," Snape said, slowly.  
"Yes. The cake," Voldemort said, sounding quite triumphant.  
Beside him, Greengrass whimpered again.  
Blaise knew that they were protected by a silencing charm, but he still wanted to strangle her. Luckily, Crabbe and Goyle hadn't woken up yet. If they had, they would undoubtedly blunder around like idiots, and Voldemort would know that they were awake immediately.  
"And?" Snape pressed. Blaise snapped his attention back to their conversation. "Who did it?"  
"Just the house elf," Voldemort said, sounding bored. "But I don't think he'll be in any state to try again… for a long, long time," he grinned evilly, and Blaise met Greengrass's panicked blue eyes. She was laying with her hands between her face and the floor, and with her dark blonde hair spread like butter across the carpet.  
And, slowly, Blaise saw her hand moving across the floor, looking almost like a spider in the dark. She reached down and gripped his hand tightly, and then she met his eyes.  
"Don't worry," Blaise whispered. He wasn't any good at comforting people, he was just saying what he thought she would want to hear.  
Instantly, panic covered her face like a mask. "Shh!" she hissed under her breath, sending an anxious glance at Snape and Voldemort, who were now speaking quietly.  
Idiot. Talking to her instead of paying attention to their conversation, Blaise mentally berated himself, only realizing too late that Snape could still hear his thoughts. At least, he was assuming.  
And his assumptions were confirmed when Snape's hand moved, and suddenly Greengrass's eyes snapped shut, and she seemed to be asleep. Blaise let out a slow, shuddering breath, and turned his eyes back to the conversation.  
Voldemort was smiling, rather evilly, at the fire. He smiled in a way that sent chills down Blaise's spine, and made him want to look away. "And Plum. I cannot tell you all of the details… but she, too, is under my control. Albeit, a bit… problematic," he turned to stare at Snape. "Oh, my dear Severus. I hate to put such a burden on you. But, one of these days, I may require you to… dispose, of her. Can you do that for me?"  
Snape paused. His dark eyes glittered. And then he spoke, in a barely audible whisper, "Your wish is my command."  
Voldemort smiled.  
"But I assume that is not all. What of the other one? There must be one more," Severus pressed. Blaise narrowed his eyes. He was speaking so boldly, that this must be important. Otherwise, he would not dare to ask Voldemort so many questions. "What of the other?" he asked, stepping forward and raising his eyes to meet Voldemort's.  
Voldemort stared over him, as if he was watching something moving in the distance. "The other. Oh, I was especially proud of the other, Severus. The elf is an idiot, Plum is practically useless, but… I have the tightest of holds on Hogwarts."  
He stepped closer to Snape, who didn't even flinch. Voldemort looked down at him, the fire crackled, but Snape held his gaze. "And, in fact, I will need you now that the elf is gone," Voldemort continued. "You know how to make Polyjuice potion, of course?"  
Snape bowed his head, "Yes, my lord," he said, and then he raised his head again. Blaise shuddered. Just the thought of those yellow eyes boring into his skull… but Snape maintained eye contact, and the seconds stretched out. Silent and dark. Blaise realized that Voldemort couldn't just be staring into Snape's eyes, he must be using Legilimency. He must be searching for something there.  
And he found it.  
And Voldemort stepped away. "Then I will require your skills. For, you see, Severus, there is a reason that you have not seen Regulus Black until now."  
Snape inhaled sharply, and opened his mouth to speak, but Voldemort cut him off.  
"He is one of my most faithful followers. And I have assigned him with a very important, very specific mission," the dark lord's voice grew deeper, and suddenly Blaise's head started to ache with it, as if it was echoing off the walls of his mind. "There is also a reason that the man you once knew as Albus Dumbledore has changed so much. He is Black, disguised with Polyjuice, waiting until I give the signal, and the time is right."  
Blaise forgot to hold onto his emotions. They erupted in a waterfall, with disbelief and panic and anger all coursing through his veins, making him squeeze Greengrass's hands painfully, and making him bite down on his lip until it started to bleed.  
No.  
No.  
No.  
If Dumbledore was gone, then all hope was truly lost.  
And wasn't that true? He was the only one Voldemort ever feared. If he was gone, all that was left was Neville bloody Longbottom. Hogwarts would fall. Voldemort's plan would succeed. And Blaise felt the room fading around him.  
And then Voldemort turned. "Please excuse me, Severus. But, during this entire conversation, I am sorry to say that my mind has been exploding with petty emotions. And it seems that poor Zabini is still holding tight to Greengrass's hand."  
What?  
No.  
The dark lord's eyes, boring into Blaise's skull. Coming closer, like a shadowed monster, painted red by the flames, and making panic spike through Blaise's brain. He jerked his hand away, and then he threw it all out the window, backing away on all fours until his back hit the wall with a thud that chilled his bones.  
Greengrass's eyes opened.  
Met his.  
And closed.  
And Blaise saw Snape staring at him, saw fear coating his black eyes, and saw him turn away.  
And then the shadow of the dark lord's robes hid him from view, and blocked out all the light. Blaise was lost in shadow, but he could see the dark lord's wand, raised, pointing right between Blaise's eyes.  
"Say your last words," he hissed, yellow eyes searing into Blaise's skull.  
Blaise was frozen.  
And then Snape spoke. "May I speak, my lord?"  
Voldemort paused. His yellow eyes flicked from Blaise to Snape, who was now standing slightly behind him, greasy hair like a curtain over his face. And then they landed back on Blaise, making him shake against his will. And now he could feel Legilimency, like a shadow over his mind. How had he not noticed it before?  
Idiot.  
Idiot.  
"Yes, you are," Voldemort murmured.  
Blaise's blood ran cold.  
And then the wand was lifted, so suddenly that Blaise wondered, for a split second, if he had imagined it. "Very well, Severus. But make it quick. I am not normally one to hesitate." His pale, dead hand disappeared back within his robes.  
"You said it yourself, my lord. That it would be too heavy of a loss. But give me an hour, or two, and I will deal with him. We can save him, my lord. He is strong. You saw it, the wandless magic. Very powerful indeed."  
Voldemort raised his head, and the firelight once more illuminated his skeleton of a face, filling the pits and craters of his sharp cheekbones and sunken eyes with crimson. "You? A potions professor, teach him to be a death eater? Keep in mind, Severus Snape, I do not normally give out second chances."  
His words hung in the air.  
Blaise shot terrified glanced between them, watching them gaze at each other, watching Snape's eyes flicker down to meet his. "My lord, if I may say so… this boy is probably filled with conflicting emotions at the moment. It is but a struggle of being human."  
"Pathetic," the dark lord whispered.  
"Very. But it may be hard for a young boy to remain loyal to his lord when that same lord is the reason that his father's corpse is lying on the ground… beside him," Snape's eyes met his again. "It is only a side-effect of an underdeveloped mind, my lord. He does not understand what is good for him. But he will. My lord, he could be great."  
And they stood there quietly, with the fire crackling behind them, looking down at Blaise from above.  
"Very well," Voldemort said, turning away to walk to the fire.  
And Blaise let out a long breath that he hadn't realized he had been holding. He was gasping for air, clutching his chest. He collapsed against the wall, staring up at Snape, who towered above him, gazing down at him silently. He considered him for a moment, and then he, too, turned away without a sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: more snogging, and emergency meetings.  
> So, there you have it. My favorite chapter.   
> I hope you love it, too.  
> I wrote it just for you.  
> And if you do…  
> Then please review!  
> (lol)


	21. Twenty - That Bastard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok... I hate to do this to you... but chapter 26 is my absolute favorite (even better than chapter nineteen) and I just HATE the fact that I have to wait at least three weeks to post it! ANYWAY, please enjoy this chapter, which is not my favorite, but hopefully still good.  
> Thanks to Sailor Silver Ladybug for beta-ing, as always.

Twenty.  
That Bastard.  
-  
()()()  
“No class,” Pansy muttered. They were standing in front of the Potions classroom, finally seeing the sign long after everyone else had left. She sighed to Hermione, who was standing beside her. What the hell were they supposed to do until lunch?  
Hermione tapped her finger against the glass below the sign. Emergency meeting, it read, in barely legible, scrawling handwriting. All students to meet in the great hall ASAP. It was signed, Argus Filch.  
Pansy sighed again. She drew it out, turning it into a groan and back into a sigh.  
Draco would have at least smiled, but Hermione just glanced at her, looking annoyingly confused, and looked back at the door. Pansy felt a selfish pang in her chest. She missed Draco. But that wasn’t fair, she got to see him all the time. He was with Harry, and Harry made him happy, so Pansy would just have to deal with it.  
For the first time in a long time, Pansy thought of Blaise Zabini. He was still a mystery to her, and what hurt the most was that Pansy would never get to solve it. She hated not knowing things about people, especially if that thing was the reason that she was still alive.  
Perhaps she should ask Dumbledore about it.  
But, no, Dumbledore wouldn’t know anything. He didn’t associate with Slytherins that often - at least, he hadn’t when there were still any Slytherins to associate with.  
Not for the first time, Pansy missed her Slytherin tie.  
So. Snape? No, he was a possible death eater, and that could mean bad news for Blaise - wherever he was. Pansy sighed again. Perhaps she would just never know.  
She realized that Hermione was waiting for her. “Are you coming?” she asked. “We have to go to the meeting. It’s in the great hall, so it’ll probably just last until lunch, And we have to hurry, or else we’ll miss it.”  
Pansy raised an eyebrow. “Really? I assumed we’d just skip it. Neither of us want to listen to Filch rant for twenty minutes. We could just go outside and…”  
Hermione’s eyes went wide. “What?” she exclaimed, interrupting Pansy. “No! It could be important! We have to go. Come on. You could always bring a book to study,” she added, with a smile, which, rather obnoxiously, seemed genuine.  
She wasn’t joking.  
Pansy scowled. Draco would have skipped with her. Hell, almost anyone would have skipped with her. What a bloody waste of time. Listening to Filch drone on about vomit, or recycling, or something else disgusting. The very thought made her want to gag.  
If Draco was here, Pansy would even have pretended to. And he would have laughed, goddammit. And then they would have gone outside and thrown some shit at each other, and it would have been amazing.  
Pansy sighed, again.  
“Fine,” she muttered.  
Hermione grinned.  
()()()  
Dumbledore was flipping through a pile of papers on his desk, skimming through them from behind his half-moon spectacles. Strangely, the office was lit only by two candles, which flickered wildly each time Dumbledore moved. His elbows were resting on his desk, with the sleeves of his midnight blue robes brushing against stacks of books and heaps of paperwork. And beside him was a flask of an amber, shining liquid.  
He didn’t look up when he heard Ron’s footsteps. Instead, he addressed him as if he was someone he had been expected. “Finally,” he said. “Refill this, please.” He pushed the flask forward, and then turned back to his papers.  
“Er, professor?” Ron asked, timidly. “Is this a bad time?”  
Dumbledore’s head jerked up, and he snatched the flask backwards. The candles flickered, with smoke rising up in waves. He dropped the papers he had been holding, fumbling around with shaking hands. Ron stood awkwardly while he picked them up and added them to the pile, and tapped it several times against his desk.  
Then he lifted his head to meet Ron’s eyes. Ron could feel his eyes widening. For the circles beneath Dumbledore’s eyes were ghastly, deep and sagging, and lined with a maze of wrinkles. His hair was grayer than Ron thought he had ever seen it. He looked so tired.  
“Oh… I’m… I’m sorry, professor,” Ron stammered. “I didn’t mean to…”  
Dumbledore waved his hand absently. “No, no, my dear boy. I’m quite alright. I know I look a mess, but it’s only because I’ve been working so hard, you know. Protecting the school,” he smiled warmly with a twinkle in his eye, and Ron found himself smiling, too. “Now, what was it you wanted to speak with me about?”  
Ron’s mind went blank for a moment, before it all came flooding back. “Oh! Yes. I… professor, I have a theory about what happened to Filch’s cat.” He quickly explained what had happened, and when he finished he was quite embarrassed, because Dumbledore was watching him with something like disappointment in his eyes. “Professor, I didn’t know… I just wanted to make something nice for…” he stammered again.  
Dumbledore waved his hand again. “Don’t worry, my dear boy. And I will definitely look into this… disobedient elf. If it is true, he will be punished severely. In fact, some part of me thinks that he already has,” he smiled, and Ron accidentally took a step back. “After all, house elves cannot live with the guilt of disobeying their master. They will be inclined to hurt themselves. And in a case like this… nearly murder, who knows what could happen?”  
Ron nodded. “Yes, that makes sense. But I would still check…”  
Dumbledore leaned forward, making the flickering candle cast shadows on all the wrinkles and sags of his face, making him look nearly skeletal. “Do not fear, my dear boy. I will.”  
Ron nodded again. “Okay. And… I hope you begin to feel better, sir.”  
Dumbledore smiled, and leaned back. “Thank you, Ron. You may go.”  
The candle flickered.  
And Ron left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.  
()()()  
Only a moment later, Severus entered the room.  
Regulus was seated in Albus’s chair, flipping through his paperwork and reading by the light of his flickering candle. For a moment, Severus was caught off guard by the wrinkles and the bags under the icy blue eyes, but he quickly regained his composure. It was only to be expected, and he should be glad that it had worked.  
“Refill,” Regulus said, holding his flask up for Severus to pour the Polyjuice potion into.  
Grimacing at how easy it would have been to add poison to it, Severus poured a bit of Polyjuice into the flask, with a rather angry look on his face. Then he stepped back into the shadows of Albus’s office, letting his eyes sweep over it. Over the bare walls, because Regulus had evidently removed all of Dumbledore’s charming, but problematic knickknacks. He noticed the bookshelves, and that there seemed to be significantly more books pertaining to the dark arts lining the shelves. And he noticed the empty phoenix cage.  
For some reason, that made something ache, right in his chest.  
“What did you do with him?” Severus asked, nodding at the cage.  
Regulus looked over his shoulder, and then he smirked strangely, in a way that was decidedly not Dumbledore. “He’s probably roaming some forest. Maybe dead. Who knows? And don’t forget the Sleep Deprivation potion. Worked perfectly. All the symptoms of sleepless nights spent working on saving this hellhole of a school, without actually doing it!”  
Severus inwardly rolled his eyes.  
“You know, Sev, I’m glad to have you around, instead of that idiotic house elf. It’s nice to have someone who can speak on my level, you know. Although it seems that I’m doing most of the speaking.”  
Severus didn’t respond.  
“You didn’t guess, did you? No, I don’t think you did. I’m a great actor, after all. I would have been one, if I wasn’t destined for greatness. A pity, don’t you think?”  
Severus didn’t speak.  
“You know, Sev,” Regulus continued, glancing evilly up at Severus. “You’ve been playing the double agent for years, haven’t you? Always the sullen potions master. Always the same role. And I, the instant the dark lord returns to power, am given the role of Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts! I think it says something about our relationship, don’t you? After all, you are the one serving me drinks, replacing a house elf.” And he smiled, smugly, at the fact that he had replaced Voldemort’s old favorite.  
Severus was at a loss for words. (Not that he would have used any if he had them.) What was the point of this conversation, aside from making him want to strangle the man sitting in front of him? And was this what he was doomed to endure? Endless hours of conversing with this pathetic excuse for a headmaster?  
Severus realized, with horror, that he missed Albus Dumbledore.  
What have I become? He asked himself, as Regulus continued to prattle on about house elves.  
()()()  
“What’s wrong?” Anastasia asked Ginny, when she threw open the castle doors.  
Ginny stomped the snow off her boots without looking up. Then she removed her coat and her scarf, slowly, and without even throwing them on the floor. And the look that she gave Anastasia was calm, without a trace of hatred.  
Yes, something was definitely wrong.  
“What do you mean?” Ginny asked. “I’m fine, Stasia,” she walked past with a flip of her red hair, carrying her coat and scarf. “I’m going upstairs, by the way,” she said, jabbing her finger in the direction of the Gryffindor staircase. “You can come if you want.”  
They walked through the great hall in silence. And then Stasia spoke again. “It’s just… you don’t seem…”  
She thought better of finishing that sentence.  
Ginny turned to face her, with her red hair whirling around her face. “Angry?” she offered, with a knowing smile. “Yeah. I’m feeling better, I guess. Oh…” she gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “I have to apologize to Ron…” She turned on her heel, and started walking faster, away from the staircase. “He’s telling Dumbledore about…” she trailed off. “Something. Anyway.”  
Anastasia followed in silence.  
()()()  
“Minerva,” Severus said, grabbing her sleeve before she could enter the great hall.  
She looked between him and the door, through which Filch could be easily seen, yelling about something, and then she nodded and followed him. Severus led her into the shadows of the hallway, and one quick glance back through the door proved that Regulus hadn’t seen them. He looked terribly bored, staring blankly at the wall without a trace of suspicion on his face. And it wasn’t as if he could have hidden his reaction - anything he felt, showed. Severus could see right through him.  
But that didn’t make him any less dangerous.  
“What is it, Severus?” she asked, in her thin, wavering voice. She was scanning the hallway behind them, already on high alert, and Severus silently thanked Merlin that there was at least one competent professor left in the castle.  
“Come with me,” he said.  
And so they walked through the hallways without speaking. Severus led them to the hospital wing, and Minerva only raised her eyebrows when he asked Poppy to come with them. She, too, nodded and followed without questioning. And Severus changed his mind. There were two.  
Severus considered bringing along more of the professors, but the more people he told, the more likely that the news would spread. And, if that happened, Voldemort would know that he had betrayed him. And Severus’s position among Voldemort’s most trusted allies could not be compromised.  
Besides, the other professors were idiots.  
So Severus led them to his room in the dungeons, where he sealed the doors with a quick wandless spell and lit a roaring fire in the fireplace. Then he prowled around his room, checking everywhere for signs of someone lurking in the shadows, waiting to eavesdrop on their conversation. Even though it was highly unlikely, it was much better to be safe than sorry in this situation.  
And then he turned to Minerva and Poppy, who were staring at him.  
“You might as well sit down,” he growled.  
So Minerva took Severus’s big green armchair, and he and Poppy took the couch. And she sat there quietly with her legs crossed and her hands folded in her lap, with her light grey hair falling around her face. She turned to look at him, and there wasn’t a trace of fear in her eyes. “What is it, Severus?” she asked. “What happened?”  
Severus swallowed, unable to look at either of them.  
“I was with the dark lord today,” he began. This announcement was met by a grave silence, as they both realized that whatever he had to tell them was not going to be good news, not by a long shot. Severus raised his eyes to the ceiling, tracing the wooden beams, which were lit only by the red light of the crackling fire.  
And then, with an angry wave of his hand, Severus turned the fire to empty ashes and smoke, which poured out of the fireplace in ribbons. The room was drowned in darkness, and the people beside him were reduced to shadows. Severus swallowed again. Suddenly, the fireplace had reminded him too strongly of the one in Lucius’s study, where the sixteen-year-old boy had writhed on the ground, screaming in agony beside the body of his father…  
It was an image from hell.  
“Severus…” Minerva spoke, trailing off when he shot her a look of loathing.  
“Hush, Minerva. He will speak when he is ready,” Poppy said, quietly.  
Severus stared at her. She only sent him a small smile of encouragement, and put her hand on his shoulder. It was such a small pressure that he would hardly have noticed it at all if it wasn’t making warmth spread through his body like a wildfire, nearly making him shiver. She met his eyes, and they were big and hopeful and bright.  
He looked away.  
“He told me his plan. He has three followers, all with positions within Hogwarts.”  
And who would destroy it, as soon as he snapped his fingers.  
“Who?” Minerva asked, leaning forward.  
Poppy gave his shoulder a squeeze.  
And Severus didn’t even have the energy to be irritated.  
“A house elf. Who was working in the kitchens. He was the one who put potion in the cake, and poisoned Filch’s cat.”  
“Was?” Minerva echoed.  
Severus’s mind helpfully supplied him with an image of the house elf convulsing on the ground beside the fire, with his body bathed in crimson, looking almost like blood. Severus closed his eyes, letting the darkness clear his mind for him. When he opened them, Poppy was watching him again, with big, worried eyes.  
“Was,” Severus confirmed.  
Minerva settled back in her chair. “And the others?” she demanded, looking impatient. “Tell us, Severus!”  
Poppy looked like she wanted to defend him again, but Severus interrupted her. “The second. A young girl. Anastasia Plum.” He still didn’t understand the hold that Voldemort had on her, but Severus’s mind strayed to the time he had found her, unconscious in the hallway. “I do not think that she is aware of his control of her her, and I do not think that it is her fault. Nevertheless, she could be a danger to the school. It may be prudent to…”  
Minerva shot up out of her chair, glaring down at him. “Surely, you’re not implying that she should be expelled? She has done nothing to convince me that she…”  
Severus, too, stood, but slower, rising to meet her eyes. “No, I am not implying that. But, soon, she may well show signs that she is indeed under his control. And she may try to harm Longbottom, who is our only hope for ever winning this bloody war! Tell me, Minerva, which is more important: the life of one student, or the lives of all the hundreds of others? The lives of the whole wizarding world?” he did not raise his voice, but he knew that his words were louder than hers would ever be. Because he was right.  
And Severus sat down.  
Minerva glared at him, looking quite murderous in the darkness of the dungeons, with nothing lighting her face but a few candles burning on the walls. But then she sniffed with annoyance, gathered her robes around herself, and sat down as well, refusing to meet his eyes.  
Poppy felt for his hand, found it, and intertwined her fingers with his.  
Severus didn’t know how to process that, so he decided to ignore it.  
But she didn’t let go.  
“And the last?” Minerva asked, softer this time.  
Severus stared at the candles, burning brightly in their wall sconces, making little circles of light appear on the walls. He watched them dance, and wished that he could see nothing but their red light, and feel nothing but the warmth of Poppy’s hand in his. He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling an uncomfortable pressure behind his eyes, and wishing that her warmth could cover him like a blanket.  
He felt so cold.  
“The third,” he whispered.  
And he told them.  
And Minerva’s hand flew to her mouth, and she gasped. She stood, and began to pace, muttering about how it “couldn’t be”, and how she “couldn’t believe that such a thing could happen at Hogwarts”. She rambled about “poor Albus” and “that bastard” and how she “always knew Regulus Black was a filthy, good for nothing death eater.”  
But Severus looked to his left, and saw Poppy, staring at the candles as well, watching them dance. He could see them in her eyes. And, probably without even thinking about it, she started to rub circles in his hand with her thumb, tracing the lines, warming him more than the fire ever could have, even though his bones were still so, so cold.  
()()()  
Pansy yawned.  
She leaned her head on Hermione’s shoulder, pretending not to notice when Hermione went stiff and her eyebrows shot up. Pansy had always been a “touch” person, and she enjoyed using it to make other, slightly dislikeable, people uncomfortable. Also, she was tired. Her neck could barely support her head, and she couldn’t even try to keep her eyes open.  
Hermione shifted on the bench, looking very uneasy, and Pansy rolled her eyes. If Draco were here, she would lean her head on his shoulder, and he would lean his against the top of her head, and maybe he would even play with her hair…  
But here, with Hermione, there was nothing to do except watch her feet tap against the floor, and smirk at the nervous look in her eyes. Pansy let her eyes drift over the rest of the students in the great hall. Nearly everyone was here, and all looking just as bored as she was. She glanced up at the high table. All of the teachers were there, except for Snape and McGonagall. Lucky them. They had escaped when they had the chance. Every once in a while, Pansy would glance at the clock, and groan when she saw how little it had moved.  
Filch had been talking about his cat for at least twenty minutes. Apparently, it had eaten some bad dessert and died in the middle of the hallway. Good riddance, in Pansy’s opinion. But he seemed quite angry about it.  
Behind him, even Dumbledore seemed unable to stay awake. His head was resting on his elbow, with his beard trailing along the table like a river. And his half-moon spectacles were drifting down his nose, getting nearer and nearer to falling to the table with a crash. Pansy watched them with sudden interest, getting more and engaged as they drooped towards the very end of his rather large nose…  
And then he pushed them back up with his finger, before letting his arm slump back down to the table.  
Pansy sighed in annoyance, and repositioned her head on Hermione’s shoulder. She checked the clock. Still fifteen slow, agonizing minutes until lunch. She sighed again.  
Where the hell was Draco?  
()()()  
Draco was snogging Harry Potter senseless.  
And pausing every few seconds to breathe, and shove more snow in his face, which was almost a shame. Because his face was flushed and red with the exertion of being snogged senseless, and his hair was wild and had chunks of snow in it, and his eyes were positively shining. And green. And beautiful.  
Almost a shame, but not quite.  
Draco grinned wickedly, and grabbed another handful of snow, and rubbed Harry’s face in it. He shrieked from beneath him, but he couldn’t exactly move. Draco had quickly found the upper hand in this particular exchange, having wrestled before with Pansy, and having snogged her quite a bit, as well.  
But that was nothing compared to this.  
Draco pulled Harry in for another kiss, and smiled when Harry laughed into his mouth, putting his hands behind Draco’s neck and pulling him in, as well.  
And then, suddenly, there was snow in his eyes and on his face, and Draco’s face was burning with the cold. He rubbed it off furiously, and then glared at Harry, who was currently rolling around in the snow, laughing his ass off.  
And then.  
“Shit,” Draco muttered, when he saw a certain red-haired figure approaching them. It was Pansy.  
Smirking.  
Draco stood, shaking the snow out of his hair, and then removing his scarf and waving it around, making little pieces of snow fly up, glittering in the sun. And then he turned to her, and opened his mouth to protest.  
“Shh,” she said, still smirking, putting her finger up against his lips. “I saw everything.”  
Draco actually growled.  
And Harry was still laughing.  
()()()  
Lunch.  
Loud, again.  
But this time Harry was able to sneak glances at Draco, who was sitting beside him, and smiling despite himself. Harry didn’t think that he even realized he was doing it. And he still had snow in his hair.  
Pansy was still smirking. She kept on looking over at him, and then at Harry, and then at him, and Draco’s pretend glare grew more intense each time. But when she turned away, Draco would start to smile again.  
And then there was Hermione. Sitting on Harry’s other side, and watching all of this with a very confused look on her face. She looked a bit angry about it, as well, that they all knew something she didn’t. Harry knew how much she hated not knowing things.  
But, all in all, everyone seemed in an unnaturally good mood. Longbottom and Weasley were sitting together again (which wasn’t exactly a good thing, but they both did seem to be generally happier), Luna was chattering amiably about Dimbles to the other Ravenclaws, and they were actually listening to her. Even Ginny wasn’t shooting him any hateful glances today. Harry was able to eat his lunch in the company of friends, talking about unimportant things, like he was a normal, average person with a mildly sane life.  
And then Dumbledore stood.  
Goddammit, Harry thought. Everything was going so well.  
He had that twinkle in his eye, smiling like he knew a hilarious inside joke that no one else was in on. He raised his arms dramatically, with his huge sleeves falling around him, and his long white beard twisting down the front of his robes. He was wearing midnight blue robes with little sparkling stars on them, which reflected the light streaming in from the ceiling of the great hall.  
“Please,” he began. “Be seated.”  
And he smiled again.  
Harry looked around him. No one was standing, except for a few students still getting food, and Snape and McGonagall, who were at the very back of the great hall, having a very heated discussion.  
They crossed to the front of the room and sat down at the high table. Harry almost gasped, because they both looked murderous. Especially Snape. Well, it was really only Snape. McGonagall’s face didn’t inspire the same amount of terror.  
Harry smirked, and nudged Draco’s shoulder. He pointed towards Longbottom, who was staring at Snape with his mouth in the shape of an “O” and his eyes as wide as dinner plates. And Ron kept on looking between him and Snape, looking slightly ridiculous.  
Draco snorted.  
And then Dumbledore began to speak.  
“I have noticed that recently, you all have seemed rather down in the dumps,” he said.  
Harry glanced around himself, at all of the people who were previously smiling or talking, only to become somber once again when Dumbledore stood. And he looked at Draco, and rolled his eyes, which made Draco grimace in sympathy. Beside him, Pansy watched this exchange with her chin resting on her fist, smiling contentedly.  
Honestly, could Harry have asked for better friends?  
“So I, and the staff, have decided to host an event that we have been planning since the beginning of September. An event, which, I am hoping will both lighten your spirits, and help you gain the skills to combat the enemies surrounding us.”  
“What a great way to lighten the mood,” Harry whispered, sarcastically.  
Draco actually had to look away from him, and stare up at the ceiling with his hand over his mouth, to prevent himself from laughing out loud.  
“What is this, Albus?” McGonagall asked in her trembling voice, snatching Harry’s attention back to the high table. Severus was actually rising out of his seat, and whispering something from behind gritted teeth that Harry couldn’t catch.  
Dumbledore turned to face them, and Harry saw that he was grinning wildly. He raised his arms into the air, and proclaimed, “Why, only the DADA tournament, of course! Come on, Severus. I thought you of all people would approve of this event?”  
McGonagall interrupted him, ranting about “Ministry protocol” and “Why didn’t you consult with us, Albus?” But Snape had gone slightly paler than usual, and he stood frozen for a few long moments before Hagrid tapped him awkwardly on the shoulder, and he sat down. McGonagall stopped ranting when she noticed he was gone. She shot him a questioning glance, but didn’t ask.  
Harry didn’t quite know what to make of this, and when he glanced to his left, he saw that Hermione didn’t look like she did, either. Her brows were furrowed in concentration, and she was biting her lip, but her face never brightened in that way it did when she had an amazing, mind-blowing idea.  
Dumbledore turned back around. “A few days ago, you all put your names into boxes. Today, you will be sorted into partners. And in just one short week, you will compete in the Defense Against the Dark Arts tournament, an event to rival the Triwizard!”  
And the great hall erupted in cheers.  
()()()  
Oh Regulus, what the hell is this?  
Severus rubbed the bridge of his nose, suddenly feeling a dreadful headache pounding against his skull. He sighed, leaning back in his chair, staring at the enchanted ceiling. Even the sky was a stormy grey today, with black clouds coiling up in all directions like snakes.  
Severus had this painful, instinctual urge to run and tell all of this to Dumbledore, and to wait to hear what he had to say, and to follow his direction. It was all he had ever done before, after all. Listen to Dumbledore. It was all he was good at. Dumbledore was the one who had convinced him to become the potions master, Dumbledore was the one who had gotten him to betray the dark lord and join his side, Dumbledore was the one who had convinced him to become a double agent.  
If he were here…  
But, that was ridiculous. If Dumbledore were here, Regulus certainly wouldn’t be. And there would be no bloody DADA tournament. No other obnoxious roadblock for Severus to overcome somehow, without anyone letting on to what he was doing. It was exhausting.  
For there was no doubt in Severus’s mind that this was some kind of an attempt at Longbottom’s life. Or Potter’s. Or Draco’s. Or Pansy’s. Or the whole bloody lot of them. Perhaps Regulus would try to destroy the whole school this time, just the end the whole idiotic war, and drive it into the mud. And, in that moment, Severus wouldn’t even have minded.  
Regulus stood against the grey, storming sky, with his arms raised ridiculously above his head, as if he were Moses parting the fucking red sea (Strange that Severus remembered that story, but he didn’t dwell on it). And he bellowed, in a voice louder that Severus had ever heard from those lips, “DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHO YOUR PARTNER ISSS????”  
The great hall erupted in cheering and whistling and clapping… and Severus allowed his head to fall with a smack into his hands. His head was pounding. Dear god, he needed a potion. Severus could hardly even concentrate on the information pouring from Regulus’s lips. It was like everything was trying to blind him. The candles on the tables, the twinkle in Regulus’s eye… It was bloody ridiculous!  
“I simply cannot work under these conditions,” he muttered to his hands.  
“Eh? Did ya say somethin’?” Hagrid asked, in his big oafish voice.  
Severus only waved him away with his hand without even looking up.  
“Then I shall reveal them to you!” Regulus bellowed, again. “Starting with the Gryffindors!”  
More cheering, slightly quieter this time, but still rather impressive. Severus raised his head slightly from his hands, only enough to glance over at Minerva. She was watching Regulus like a hawk, with her eyes following his every movement.  
“Ron Weasley…” Regulus said, trailing off when he realized he had the attention of everyone in the audience. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, in a very un-Dumbledorelike fashion. He grinned at the audience, taking a deep breath.  
“And Hermione Granger!” Regulus bellowed.  
The great hall erupted, once again. Granger sent a horrified glance in no one’s direction.  
And, as Severus watched, Minerva transfigured a napkin into an oversized glass of wine, and took a long, long drink.  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: a headache, a bathroom, and a death eater.  
> PLEASE REVIEW! I would love to get more reviews from you guys! I would love to know what you think... I really would. And of course, I greatly appreciate all the reviews I DO get. It feels so nice, whenever I get one.


	22. 21 - Someone Was Crying

Twenty-one.  
Someone Was Crying.  
-  
()()()  
Blaise lay silent in his cell, with his breathing echoing in his ears.  
It was only lit by candles lining the wall outside, and the shadows of the bars striped their way across the floor and across Blaise’s body. And the darkness was plastered onto everything, from his clothes to his skin to the ceiling hanging above him. Blaise sighed into the shadows, with his breathing rising like the tides in his ears.  
Greengrass’s hand was wrapped around his, tightly, making it go numb. He hadn’t moved in hours, he had done nothing but listen to their breathing as it stretched on and on like a song. But he could still feel her hand, warm and soft, against his.  
Crabbe and Goyle were in a separate cell.  
They were alone.  
In darkness, with her eyes gleaming brightly, focused only on his. Her eyes were green but dark like a forest. And darker still here, with the candles reflected brightly, as if her eyes were little green flames. Blaise turned his head, and their eyes met, glittering like fires, black on green.  
They moved together as if they had planned it, and pulled each other close. She gasped desperately at his lips, letting her tongue slide along his teeth. He pulled on her hair so hard that it must have hurt, but she didn’t seem to notice. She bit into his neck, making him groan against her, making the candles burn against his closed eyelids.  
And they fell together into the darkness.  
()()()  
Ron and Hermione.  
Pansy and Anastasia.  
Draco and Dean.  
Harry and Longbottom.  
It was ridiculous, unless you realized that Dumbledore had put all the Gryffindors together, and sorted them by year, and that there just weren’t that many sixth year Gryffindors left.  
Harry was more concerned about the look of absolute loathing that Longbottom threw in his direction, and how he stabbed his potatoes viciously with his fork, staring at Harry the entire time, with his little, black eyes burning viciously from within his pudgy face.  
Harry glanced down the table and saw all the newly-partnered couples staring at each other. Ron and Hermione were glaring daggers at each other, Pansy and Anastasia were eyeing each other warily. Draco was attempting to smile at Dean, who just ignored him, while half-heartedly attempting to swallow a few bites of food. Harry looked further down the table, and saw Ginny.  
Fighting back tears.  
“Are you okay?” he heard Anastasia ask her. Ginny just shook her head.  
“My name wasn’t called,” she whispered. “I’m the only Gryffindor left in my year, because Colin Creevey is… dead. So my name wasn’t called.”  
Harry entered their conversation without asking. “Really? Are you sure?”  
Ginny just looked at him. A few strands of fiery hair fell from behind her ear, shielding her face. “Yes, I’m bloody sure,” she replied, but her voice had lost its bite.  
“I’ll go tell Dumbledore,” Harry said, rising from his chair. Everyone turned to look at him, but he just walked away. He climbed the few steps to reach the high table. Luckily, no one noticed, because everyone was so preoccupied with their new partners, so he was able to speak to Dumbledore in moderate privacy.  
“Professor,” he hissed, putting his hands on the table and leaning closer. “Ginny didn’t get a partner.”  
“Oh,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “She can just join your team.”  
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? That doesn’t seem very fair…”  
Snape interrupted, but he didn’t look at Dumbledore. He watched Harry the entire time he spoke. “Albus,” he whispered. “I don’t think that this is a good idea. The girl is only a…”  
Dumbledore turned to face him, and he waved Harry away with his hand. Harry wandered a few steps away, but close enough to catch a few scraps of their conversation. “Severus, not here. Not now. And what harm is it if the girl joins them? She’s just a…”  
Severus’s voice grew louder, angrier. “Albus!” he hissed through gritted teeth, and when Harry looked he saw that he looked furious, and much more angry than he should be. It was just a silly tournament, after all.  
Right?  
But Snape didn’t usually get worked up about things like this… he would only care if it was truly important.  
Dumbledore turned, and fixed pale blue eyes on Harry’s. Suddenly, it made his skin crawl, and made goosebumps appear on his arms. “My dear boy, I must ask that you sit down,” he said, smiling oddly, and with his eyes still twinkling.  
Harry turned without hesitating, but he could feel Dumbledore’s eyes on him long after he had sat down at the Gryffindor table.  
()()()  
It was like all the happiness from before had evaporated, the instant that Draco looked into Dean’s eyes.  
Just… sad.  
Just sad and empty and silent. Like an ocean. Draco imagined that he would only have had to swim a few feet before reaching unending, perfect darkness. There was no light there, beneath the surface.  
And Draco didn’t think that he understood that.  
Sure, he had lost people before. Relatives. Distant relatives. People he had been taught to idolize and to fear, but he had never been close to them. They had been brought out in big white coffins, and Draco had stood silently among rows of people. Stuffy, dry-eyed people.  
But this was something different. Like something was missing. It was the light that was missing. Draco hardly remembered anything about Dean Thomas, but he did remember that he had always been smiling or laughing, and if he wasn’t, then his eyes had been. Draco used to be infuriated by it. Now, he wanted it back. And the thought of having to look into those eyes ever again was daunting, because he simply didn’t understand.  
And now they were partners.  
And Dean swallowed, folding his arms around himself, and went back to pretending to eat.  
It was sad.  
Draco automatically looked for Harry. He had finally returned from god-knows-where, but now he was staring up at the high table, seeming to be lost in thought. His hands were folded in his lap, and his black school robe was rumpled and wrinkly from their fight in the snow. His hair was even damp, with little scraggly wet bits of hair hanging down in front of his face. His cheeks were still red, and his eyes were big and green, and he looked entirely, beautifully kissable.  
It was strange, that it had taken so long for both of them to get to this place, and yet it felt so right. He just wished that they had had a chance to talk about it, to categorize it, before Pansy had forced them to come to lunch. He almost wished that she had never seen them together, that it could have been a secret, but he didn’t want to keep secrets from Pansy.  
Harry caught him looking, glanced over, and smiled. His bangs fell further in front of his eyes, and Draco, in a moment of stupidity/bravery, reached over and pushed them out of the way.  
“Awww,” Pansy whispered, in her best horrendously-sappy-girl voice.  
Both of their heads swiveled to look at her, and she seemed a bit taken aback by two annoyed pairs of eyes, staring at her. But then she regained her composure and smirked, before turning to look at Anastasia from across the table. Draco was confused for a moment, before he remembered that they were partners.  
He turned, rested his head on his elbow, and went back to staring at Harry, with a contented smile on his face.  
()()()  
Anastasia saw Pansy watching her, but she was unable to meet her eyes.  
She wasn’t sure how she felt about Pansy. But she knew that she was Harry’s friend, and a better friend than Anastasia had ever been. Anastasia felt that stone of sadness, rolling around in her stomach, weighing her down. And her hands shook, when she heard that little, eternal voice in the back of her head.  
Yesterday, it had changed.  
Obey, it said. Stop resisting.  
You’re just a weak little girl. I am the most powerful wizard to ever live. Give in.  
Anastasia’s hands shook, and she dropped her fork with a clatter. Pansy’s eyes never left her, and Stasia could feel them burning into the side of her head. She swallowed hard, suddenly, when tears sprang to her eyes. Oh, she wasn’t worthy to even speak to Pansy Parkinson, much less be her partner. Stasia had betrayed Harry, she had hurt him, so badly. He couldn’t even look her in the eye. And, to top it all off, she had Voldemort’s bloody voice in her head, trying to tell her what to do.  
Not for the last time, Anastasia considered just telling Dumbledore, getting expelled or shipped off to Azkaban, and putting an end to this unending battle with herself, that she could never seem to win.  
But she was too afraid.  
And Pansy was still watching her.  
Anastasia turned her head, just enough to meet her eyes. They were dark, and black, and they seemed to see right through her.  
She felt a pounding, as if someone was knocking on her skull. Anastasia jerked her eyes away, and let her head fall into her hands. Oh, her headache. If it could even be called that. It made her arms shake hollowly, it made her feel sick. It made her want to run out of the great hall and pound her forehead against a railing, just to replace the aching with pain.  
And then, something touched her head.  
Anastasia raised her head so quickly that her teeth knocked together, and Pansy snatched her hand away. She looked down at her with her lips slightly open and her big eyes fixed on Anastasia’s face. They looked… nice, almost. As if she cared. And then Pansy moved her hand to beneath Anastasia’s face, cupping her chin, making her shake.  
“Headache?” she asked.  
Anastasia moved her head away accidentally, without even realizing she was doing it. And she stared at Pansy, who was being kind to her, and she couldn’t quite believe that this was happening.  
“Oh, sorry,” Pansy stammered. “I’m… a touch person. I can go get you a potion?” she offered, throwing her hands up in a gesture of helplessness. “I wish I could actually help, but…”  
Anastasia tried to smile, and it must have worked because Pansy smiled, too. “A potion would be great,” she said, and it sounded all foggy and echoing in her own ears, because she could hardly hear above the drumming in her forehead. She didn’t even hear what Pansy replied, but she saw her smile, and she saw her turn and walk away.  
Ginny tapped her on the shoulder. “What the hell was that about?” she asked, so loudly that Anastasia’s head started pounding worse. It was almost unbearable. She just shook her head slightly, and let her head drop back into her hands, trying to ride out the pain until Pansy returned.  
And trying to ignore the fact that above the pounding and the pain, was that same voice.  
Obey, it hissed. Obey, while you still have a choice.  
()()()  
Hermione eyed Ron warily from across the table. She hadn’t spoken to him since the attack by the lake, and she hadn’t wanted to.  
How had she ever thought that she liked him? She wondered, as she chewed thoughtfully on a piece of scrambled egg, still watching him. It made him uncomfortable, she could see his eyes shifting from her to his plate, and she saw him run a hand through his red shock of hair. She smirked in a rather Pansy-like fashion, which made him squirm.  
Hermione could have laughed out loud.  
Who would have thought that the school bully, who liked to hang out with Longbottom and laugh like a bloody gorilla, and make fun of Harry when he so much as held Malfoy’s hand…  
Hermione forgot whatever she had been thinking, because now she was getting angry all over again. That conversation at lunch, so long ago - but, in reality, it had only happened about a week ago - when Weasley had said those awful things to Harry.  
And when she had slapped him in the face.  
Hermione glared at Weasley, forcing all of her angry emotions into her eyes. She stabbed her scrambled eggs violently with her fork, making it scrape painfully against her plate, and shoveled them into her mouth.  
Oh, she would rather have been partnered with anyone than Ron Weasley. Even bloody Longbottom, because at least then she wouldn’t have had any problematic hormones to contend with. And she would never understand how she could despise a human so much, and yet her very body could betray her, every time he looked her way.  
It made her hands tingle.  
It made her stare.  
And it was bloody disgusting.  
So Hermione quickly ate the rest of her scrambled eggs, shoving so much into her mouth that she was sure Ron would have been looking at her oddly, if she had bothered to look up and check. And then she stood from the table, gathered up her books, and walked out of the great hall.  
And he was the only one to notice that she was gone.  
()()()  
Dumbledore stood, again.  
Dear god, spare me.  
Severus was suddenly envious of Minerva’s huge glass of wine. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand listening to Regulus prattle on about “tournaments” and, “the good of the wizarding world” without something to drink.  
Ha! Tournament. He was so blatantly obvious. Putting Longbottom and Potter together? Even worse. Severus could only wish that someone besides himself would realize it, and put a stop to it. He couldn’t very well go around telling everyone, because Regulus would surely learn about that. But if someone did manage to stop it, how was Severus going to explain why he hadn’t simply murdered them?  
He sighed into his hands. It was all too bloody complicated. He should have remained a death eater and let Voldemort Avada Kedavra him. It would have been easier.  
But, perhaps, he could tell Minerva and Poppy… but what good could they do? Kill Regulus? Sure, that would work. It wasn’t as if the entire fucking school was surrounded by Aurors. Poison, perhaps? Blame it on the bloody house elves? Severus raised an eyebrow, considering it. Just a drop of poison… but how to get it to him? It couldn’t be in the polyjuice… then the potion wouldn’t work. Severus wasn’t sure what would happen, but Regulus surely wouldn’t come out looking like Dumbledore. More likely, his body would be deformed in some grotesque fashion. The polyjuice would try to transform him into a potion.  
Severus smiled at the thought of a purple Regulus-puddle on the floor, then shook it away.  
No. It was too dangerous for him to do it, because his position could be discovered. He would speak to Minerva and Poppy later. For now, he listened half-heartedly to Regulus’s prattle.  
“Tonight, the tests will be revealed. And in only two days, the tournament shall take place! The great hall will be transformed into a training ground for masters of the dark arts!”  
Severus noticed Regulus’s slip, and how he didn’t even bother to correct himself. The students were listening to him in an awed silence, and they probably wouldn’t have interrupted him even if he started babbling about why they should join the bloody dark lord.  
“The winners will receive an extra Hogsmeade weekend, for themselves and one team that they choose to bring along!” Regulus declared, and the great hall exploded with applause.  
Snape rubbed the bridge of his nose. His whole body was yearning for a drink. He didn’t think that he could deal with this man being so bloody obvious for another minute without yelling it into the great hall.  
An extra Hogsmeade weekend. That way, if Potter and Longbottom were to somehow manage to not get murdered during the tournament and win, they could still be murdered at Hogsmeade. It would be easy to blame a rogue death eater, or even a rampaging hippogriff. And if they didn’t win, he would force the winning team to take them along to Hogsmeade, so that they could still be murdered.  
So damn easy.  
Severus ground his teeth irritably, wishing that he could just saw them off.  
()()()  
“So, Dumbledore said that you’ll be partnered with me and Longbottom,” Harry explained, as he and Ginny walked down the hallway, along with a stream of people leaving lunch.  
Ginny sighed. Seriously? This was pretty much disastrous. But she didn’t say anything, only pretended to smile. Their shoulders brushed accidentally, and Ginny jerked away, crossing her arms.  
The words of the people walking by blended together in her ears. “DADA tournaments” and “partners” and petty, stupid problems. At least they weren’t partnered with their ex and bloody Longbottom! Ginny felt anger flaring up in her chest, and she wanted to scream at something. Most likely Harry.  
Oh, but he was trying to be nice, at least. Even though he kept on shooting glances backwards, to where Draco was walking. Ginny rolled her eyes, remembering what had happened earlier that day, and it left a bitter taste in her mouth. But it shouldn’t! I should be happy for him!  
But she wasn’t. She was just jealous and bitter, because she didn’t know how to get over it. Pathetic.  
“I think it’ll be fun,” Harry continued, trying valiantly to continue the conversation.  
Ginny sighed. She shouldn’t be so awful to him. He was trying to be nice, so she would try as well. She took a deep breath, and turned to face him.  
Oh god. The green eyes.  
Ginny was frozen, but somehow her feet kept moving, she kept walking. Harry stared at her, obviously uncomfortable, because she couldn’t stop looking at him. At the glasses she had traced, the lips she had tasted, the hair she had touched. At the eyes she had memorized. Then Ginny swallowed the lump in her throat and looked away.  
“Yeah. Maybe,” she said quietly, bitterly.  
Harry tapped her on the shoulder, but Ginny didn’t look up. “What’s wrong?” he asked, but she didn’t see his face.  
And now they were at the end of the hallway, and turning towards the Gryffindor tower. Ginny saw Pansy, Hermione, even Stasia… all people that he could be talking to, but he was talking to her. It made her feel moderately better. Perhaps he didn’t hate her.  
Ginny sighed. “Oh, nothing. “I’m just tired.”  
Harry nodded sympathetically, even though she was certain he saw right through her excuse. “Same here,” he said, laughing. “It’s been a rough few weeks, that’s for sure.”  
Oh no. She was a terrible person.  
Complaining about being tired when Harry obviously had so much more to deal with… oh no oh no.  
“I’m sorry,” Ginny whispered, almost pleading. “You know. For yelling at you. It just made things harder on you. And it wasn’t justified. I was just angry for no good reason.”  
“You were,” Harry confirmed, nodding without looking at her.  
Ginny swallowed. “And… I’m sorry for kissing you. That wasn’t right. I was just…”  
Harry put up a hand to stop her, and he turned so that his bright green eyes burned into hers. The other Gryffindors flooded past them, some of them staring, but Harry didn’t seem to care. “No need to elaborate,” he said. “I forgive you.”  
Ginny smiled sadly, glancing down at the shoes. “Thanks,” she whispered.  
And they walked the rest of the way in silence.  
()()()  
Draco followed the others out of the great hall, rolling his neck backwards, making it crack. His back hurt. He hadn’t realized it earlier. Perhaps it was because of all that wrestling in the snow… and other things.  
Draco tried to catch Harry’s eye, but he seemed lost in thought. And he was staring at something. Draco followed his eyes to a wild head of red hair, and little angry eyes. And he felt an automatic pang of jealousy that Harry would rather spend his time staring at the little Weasley brat than talking to him.  
And then Harry started walking faster, elbowing his way through the stream of people leaving the great hall, to walk next to her, and lean down to speak into her ear. Draco stared at the floor so that he wouldn’t have to look at them.  
And then he looked up to find Pansy. He wanted to talk to her. He hadn’t spoken to her in what felt like an unnaturally long time. He missed her. But she was talking to Anastasia.  
And then Draco realized that he really only had two good friends, and that without them, he was quite alone.  
He wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly shivering. The hallway felt ten times colder. And he hated the people, brushing past him, talking in high-pitched voices. It made his ears hurt. Draco took a series of deep, slow breaths, but they all came out shaky and wrong. So instead he quickened his pace, keeping his eyes on the ground and letting his hair fall down over his face so that no one could see his eyes. He suddenly had an intense, irrational need to get out of the hallway.  
So he broke away from the crowd of chattering people, catching one last look at Harry as he walked away. Then he pushed open the door to the boy’s bathroom and slammed it behind himself.  
Oh.  
Someone was crying.  
It echoed off the walls, hoarse and choked and ugly. And under it was the splash of falling water, from around the corner where Draco couldn’t see. But he had an idea of who it might be, of who would be crying instead of celebrating, of who would have ran to hide in the bathroom, just like Draco did.  
Draco froze, trying not to breathe. If he was quiet, he could just walk out, and they wouldn’t notice. And as much as he didn’t want to rejoin that stream of people, he would much rather be out there than in here.  
But the sobs quieted, and then they stopped. Draco heard a wavering voice from around the corner, where the sinks were. “Who’s there?” it asked, hoarsely, and Draco felt something sticking in his throat, because he always felt like crying when other people cried.  
He took a deep breathe.  
This was not his area of expertise. He didn’t know how to comfort people! If anything, he was usually the one being comforted, by Pansy or Harry or even bloody Hermione. He didn’t know what to say.  
But he recognized the voice. And so he had to say something! He couldn’t just walk away and pretend that nothing happened. Draco walked closer, with his footsteps loud on the tiles, and with his breathing loud in his own ears. He rounded the corner and there was Dean Thomas, leaning over the bathroom sink, with tears in his eyes.  
“Draco,” Draco said, jerking his head to flip his hair out of his eyes, and smiling softly. “Are you all…”  
Dean’s head snapped away from the mirror, his eyes met Draco’s, and they flashed with anger. Draco found himself taking a step back, with his mouth open in the shape of an “O” and with his heart beating strangely.  
Dean stared at him, and Draco could tell that he was breathing shakily and that his heart was beating strangely, too. He looked like a mouse, and he was staring at Draco like he was a huge cat, come to rip him apart and devour him.  
“Go away,” he whispered. “I don’t talk to death eaters.” And he turned back to the sink, and lowered his head towards the water, rubbing the tears out of his eyes furiously, with his face red and raw from crying.   
But Draco couldn’t move. All he could do was stare at him. He was frozen awkwardly in the middle of the bathroom, feeling too tall and too big, because all he wanted was to disappear.  
Something in his chest ached horribly, gnashing its teeth.  
“I’m sorry,” Draco whispered, pleading. He wanted Dean to understand so badly. But after everything he had done - nearly get murdered by his housemates, betray his bloody family - he still didn’t understand. None of them did. They all hated him, they thought he was a death eater. And nothing he could say would change their minds.  
Draco felt his heart start to pound.  
Dean glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, with fresh tears slipping down his face. “Fuck you,” he whispered.  
And so Draco backed away, feeling numb and cold all over. His eyes were burning painfully, and he rubbed them with the back of his hand. He could feel tears pricking at his eyelids, threatening to spill over. And something was stuck in his throat. Draco felt wildly around for the door handle, but he could hardly see because everything was so blurry.  
He had to get out.  
And then the door opened. And in walked Harry, with his hair messy and his glasses askew from running. He pushed the door closed behind him and then stood there gasping for air, and then he gestured with his hand for Draco to come nearer.  
Draco shot a furtive glance at Dean, who was watching him in the mirror. Harry rolled his eyes. “Hug me, you idiot!” he said in between gasps for air. “You look like you were hit by a train, and I ran all the way over here to find you…”  
Draco let a quiet smile light up his face, and he walked closer so that he was out of the view of the mirror. But instead of hugging Harry, he took his hand and pulled him out of the bathroom, and let the door fall shut behind them.  
Harry raised a confused eyebrow. “Why did you…?”  
“Dean was in there,” Draco explained, in a voice that was surprisingly shaky. Harry noticed, but didn’t ask, didn’t say anything, and then Draco let himself be drawn into a tight hug. It felt like Harry was holding him so tightly that nothing bad could ever happen to him. Draco let his head drop to rest on Harry’s shoulder, and he sighed in relief and contentment and all sorts of other things that he couldn’t name.  
They swayed slightly, as if to music, even though the hallway was silent. Draco breathed quietly into Harry’s neck, and he could feel him shiver slightly with each breath. And now, instead of aching, his heart felt full and alive in his chest.  
Harry kissed him softly on the forehead, and Draco shook with silent tears because that reminded him of his mother, and how, when he was young, she used to sneak silently up the stairs after his father had gone to sleep so that she could give him a goodnight kiss, right there on his forehead. Draco pressed himself closer to Harry, relaxing into his arms, just waiting for the shaking in his arms and his hands and his heart to go away.  
()()()  
“Hey. Hermione,” Ron said, tapping her on the shoulder.  
It had taken him ten whole minutes to work up the courage. Watching the clock, telling himself that he had better bloody say something before bloody transfiguration, when he would lose his bloody chance. And then Harry had finally stopped pacing and had darted out of the common room, so Hermione had been left alone in a fat purple armchair, reading an absurdly large book, wearing an absurdly oversized sweater, with her knees close to her chest and her feet dangling off the edge of her chair. Her wild, bushy hair fell around her face, and her lips were slightly parted, exposing her rather large front teeth.  
She was perfect.  
So Ron walked up behind her in what he hoped was a non-creepy fashion, and tapped her on the shoulder. “Hey, Hermione,” he said.  
She turned with a smile, but he watched her eyes harden when she saw him. She eyed him warily, scanning his face, his hair, his eyes, her eyes narrowing and her brows furrowed. “What do you want?” she demanded, slamming her book and turning around in her chair to face him.  
Luckily, everyone was too busy talking loudly about the DADA tournament to notice. But Ron did see Ginny, who was sitting alone by the fire, glancing at them out of the corner of her eye.  
He swallowed. “Hey… I guess I just… well,” he stammered. And then he spoke in a rush, not pausing to think about what he was saying. “Well, you know, we’re gonna be partners for the tournament so I thought it would be best if we’re not mad at each other, since we’re going to have to practice together and all and I don’t want to get hexed into oblivion.”  
And then he stopped speaking, and stared at her, waiting anxiously for a response.  
Hermione’s mouth was hanging open. She pushed back a strand of bushy hair, but her eyes never left his face. “Um… well,” she paused and looked up at the ceiling, as if she was trying to find the perfect words, hanging from the beams above them. And then she turned back to him, and in her eyes there was a new intensity, a fire, and Ron had to move back for an irrational fear of getting burnt. “Okay,” she said. “How would you like to start?”  
()()()  
“Here,” Pansy said, handing Anastasia the potion.  
They were in the dimly lit potions classroom, and Snape was watching them from behind a large textbook. Pansy kept shooting sideways glances at him, because he was sitting ominously in a big black chair, looking like a big black bat, with eyes that screamed I would like nothing more than to murder you slowly and painfully.  
Pansy shook her head slightly to clear her thoughts, and looked away from him. To Anastasia, who had taken the potion and taken a sip without a second thought. She wrapped her hands around it as if it were a mug of hot chocolate, and she licked her lips thoughtfully. Her glasses were sliding slowly down her nose, making her look oddly adorable.  
“Thoughts?” Pansy asked, just to break the silence.  
Anastasia smiled at her crookedly, with her green eyes shining from behind her glasses, and little pieces of curly dark hair falling over her face. She was wearing her Gryffindor scarf inside instead of her tie. She was so bloody cute. Pansy hadn’t noticed that before. She had thought of Anastasia as Harry’s little girlfriend, who followed him around everywhere he went and was rather brainless. But perhaps that wasn’t true. Harry must have some sort of good taste in picking love interests, after all, he was head over heels for Draco.  
But then again, he had dated Ginny Weasley in fifth year.  
Pansy raised an eyebrow. Perhaps Anastasia fell somewhere in the middle. Or perhaps not. She was a mystery. Pansy had never talked with her before for any extended period of time, so she really had no idea what she was like.  
Anastasia sighed with contentement. “It tastes like green tea,” she said, with a little smile. “And…” something flickered in her eyes, and Pansy narrowed her eyes, trying to decipher what it was. But when Anastasia spoke next, she was not smiling. “And treacle tart,” she whispered, hoarsely.  
Snape lifted his head, watching them silently.  
Pansy laughed, but it sounded much too loud. “Strange combination, isn’t it? Tea and treacle tart? Doesn’t sound very good to me.”  
Anastasia shook her head. “I changed my mind. I don’t want any more. In fact… I think my headache is already gone.”  
She was lying.  
Pansy could tell.  
But she took the potion when Anastasia held it out for her to take, and she put it back on the little shelf in the potions cupboard. Perhaps that was why Harry had broken up with her. One moment she was all smiles and cuteness, and the next she was… whatever emotion this was.  
And when Snape spoke from behind them, Pansy uttered a little squeal of surprise. She had been too engrossed in her own thoughts to realize that he was there.  
Snape raised an eyebrow. He seemed amused, so Pansy scowled obligingly. “Did I frighten you?” he asked, and there was a definite hint of humor in his voice. “No matter,” he continued, and now his voice was dark, as always. “Plum? I hear you have a headache. Should I take you to see Madam Pomfrey?”  
Anastasia shook her head too quickly, and she spoke strangely. Robotically. “No need, professor. I’m feeling much better.”  
Pansy furrowed her brows, and Snape narrowed his eyes. It was obvious that neither of them believed her, but Anastasia ignored them. “I should go,” she said quickly, darting past them and nearly running out of the potions classroom.  
Pansy glanced at Snape, and he met her eyes. There was no trace of emotion there, and it reminded her of Draco, whenever the shutters fell down over his eyes. It was nerve wracking, because Pansy had never been able to hide her emotions. She felt like she was so obvious right then, even though her face may not have shown anything at all.  
Then Snape nodded, once. “You may go, Miss Parkinson,” he practically whispered. His voice was so quiet.  
Pansy left the room quickly, closing the door behind her. But she looked back through the window, just enough to catch Snape standing with his head bowed, rubbing the bridge of his nose and with his robes folded around himself like wings.  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: knocking, Somnus, and a mark.  
> Please review!


	23. 22 - Warm

Twenty-two  
Warm.  
-  
()()()  
Harry held Draco tightly, pulling him to his chest, running his fingers through his beautiful blonde hair. He would have kissed him again, but Draco had obviously been near tears, and Harry didn’t know if now was the right time.  
He wondered what had happened, but he didn’t ask. Draco would tell him when he was ready.  
For now, Harry focused on the beating of his heart, and the swell of emotion spreading out from it like waves, threatening to knock him over. It made him smile bitterly, it made him bite his lip. It made them sway together, and it must have looked like they were dancing awkwardly in the middle of the hallway, pressed closely together, not caring if anyone saw.  
Harry pressed his lips against Draco’s forehead again, and his blonde hair tickled his face, making Harry smile. Draco’s eyes were closed tightly, scrunched up as if he was in pain. And his head was turned into the space beneath Harry’s chin, making Harry feel rather protective. If Dean was to emerge from the bathroom right then, Harry might have punched him right in the face.  
And Draco moved his hands from around Harry’s back to brace them against his shoulders, and push him away.  
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, looking beautiful in the dimly lit hallway, with the candles setting fire to his eyes, making them shine crimson instead of gray. He managed to meet Harry’s eyes for a few moments before turning them to the ground and wrapping his arms around himself, as if for protection.  
And Harry found that his heart was beating faster, because he needed a way to tell Draco that it was alright and that he was okay and that he had nothing to apologize for, and Harry’s heart was beating like a drum in his chest because now he could do this.  
He pulled Draco towards him, and kissed him on the lips. “Don’t be,” he whispered, smiling when Draco kissed him back.  
And then the bathroom door opened, and Dean walked out.  
()()()  
The library was unusually quiet.  
Hermione loved it.  
Oh, the smell of books and the fluffy chairs and the roaring fire, with no one to disturb them but Madam Pince. Just silence and the dusty, leather-bound books, waiting on their shelves, waiting to tell their tales of magic and adventure and the art of potion-making. It was glorious!  
Hermione actually hopped up and down on her heels accidentally because she was so happy, but she quickly stopped when Ron stared at her like she was from outer space. “This is where you decided to go?” he asked, in disbelief, and with just a hint of disgust. Hermione glanced at him, at the way he scanned the shelves dismissively, the way his eyes skipped over the titles as if they didn’t matter. His red hair was too messy, and much too red, making him look wild and spiteful. And his face was rather wide and sharp, making him look angrier than he probably was.  
But it was enough to convince her that Ron Weasley did not enjoy libraries.  
Perhaps he could learn.  
Or perhaps it was a lost cause.  
Because Hermione Granger just could not be friends with, much less date, anyone who did not enjoy libraries.  
Well… Pansy didn’t like them all that much. But she was different. She was… nice, and they got along, and Hermione didn’t have any good reasons to despise everything about her, like she did with Ron.  
Definitely leaning towards a lost cause.  
But Hermione drew herself up, trying to appear taller, so that she could take a deep breath and address him in her biggest, most authoritative voice.  
“Problem?” she asked, slightly sarcastically.  
Dammit. That wasn’t big, or authoritative.  
But it seemed to get the point across. Perhaps, because he was so used to trailing after Longbottom like a lost puppy, Ron wasn’t used to hearing sarcasm, because he whipped his head around and stared at her like she had sprouted two heads.  
“What? No. No way. This is fine,” Ron lied, smiling like an idiot.  
Hermione raised an eyebrow, but then sighed, flipping her bushy hair and walking past him towards a table by the fire. Then she shrugged off the bag of books that she was carrying and dumped them out unceremoniously onto the table, before sitting down. Hermione stared at the chair across from herself blankly, waiting for him to sit, then sighed sharply again and turned to look at him. “Are you coming?” she asked, accidentally sounding much meaner than she had meant to. “The books won’t bite you. I just thought we could come here and study, or read, or whatever. Something that friends do,” she offered, trying her best to smile.  
Ron grimaced in response, and shuffled his feet loudly against the carpet as he walked to the table. Then he sat down with a plop across from her. And it all reminded Hermione disconcertingly of the last time she and Ron had sat together beside a pile of books, researching the Sorcerer’s Stone, because Hermione had somehow picked out books on the subject without even realizing it.  
She had never found out why that had happened, had she?  
In fact, there was so much that she still didn’t know about the events of first year. Too much. Hermione hated not knowing things.  
Hermione shook the thoughts away. She picked up a large book called Transfiguration Throughout the Ages and set it upright in front of Ron.  
“Herm…” Ron began, but stopped when he saw the book. “Blimey, how many pages can you write about Transfiguration?”  
Hermione opened her mouth to laugh, but then the word echoed strangely in her mind, actually giving her the chills. They ran in prickles down her spine, and she shivered.  
Herm.  
Who has called me that before?  
Ron must have thought that she was frustrated, because of the strange look on her face, so he opened the book to the front page. “Never mind,” he said. “I’ll try to… study,” he finished, with a pretend-shudder.  
Hermione giggled, her strange thoughts forgotten. And she, too, opened a book, turned to the front page, and began to read.  
They must have made a strange pair, she mused, as she flipped through the pages. Enemies since first year, but now sitting together in the library, in some kind of comfortable silence. And it was comfortable. No one spoke, but they didn’t need to. Speaking would only lead to conflict. But as long as they read quietly, across from each other in the silence of the library, they could exist peacefully together.  
Hermione sneaked a look at him from above her textbook. She couldn’t explain it, but every time she looked at him it made her heart beat, faster and faster. And there was no reason for it, really. He was a vile human being, and his hair wasn’t very flattering. Nothing about him was very flattering, actually. But she still couldn’t get over it, the way her pulse sped up and her breathing stopped when she saw his face.  
It was almost as if it was meant to be.  
()()()  
Dean wiped his eyes one last time.  
And then he walked to the door, took a deep breath, and opened it.  
Only to see Potter and Malfoy, kissing in the bloody doorway, and it made Dean freeze in the doorway, with his heart beating loudly in his ears. The blood was rushing like a river, disorienting him, leaving him dizzy, making him remember.  
There was a knock on the door. A deathly, solemn knock.  
And Dean answered the door, and gasped and screamed when he saw who it was. A man dressed all in black, wearing a top hat, carrying a wand. “I am here on behalf of the Ministry of Magic,” he announced, and Dean’s heart stopped beating.  
“WHERE’S SEAMUS?” he screamed, wincing at the sound of his own ragged, high-pitched, pleading voice. His chest was heaving and the tears were already burning at his eyes, painful and aching.  
His mother pulled his arms back, holding them in a tight grip, as if he was going to attack the man. But he wasn’t that crazy! Although Seamus had always said that he…  
And a sob rose up in Dean’s throat.  
He had been missing for four days. And he was a half-blood. And the death eaters had been spotted, flying on brooms over the city, only a few days before he had disappeared… And Dean began to cry.  
“Is he here?” he asked, in between sobs. “Please tell me that he’s here… and okay… and just SAY IT! I don’t CARE if it’s true!”  
The Ministry official cleared his throat.  
Dean looked up, face red and throat raw, and wrenched his arms out of his mother’s grasp. “TELL ME!” he screamed.  
The Ministry official sighed. “Mr. Finnegan was killed by death eaters. His body, along with the bodies of his family members, was found in his place of residence. I was told to come here and tell you. I am very sorry for your loss.”  
Dean’s legs stopped supporting him, and he fell with a painful thud against the doorframe, with everything spinning and his world going blurry and his heart aching. “They can’t…” he whispered, and it hurt to speak but he did it anyway. “They can’t! They took father, and they can’t take him too. They CAN’T!” he raised his head and screamed, screamed, screamed.  
But the official was gone, and Dean was left alone with nothing but his mother’s attempt at comfort, and a bloody, empty hole in his heart.  
Dean pulled himself out of his memories, and it was painful, like a bandaid ripping at his skin.  
And then he was angry.  
He forgot everything but the red curtain, the haze that dropped down over his eyelids, the one that made him want to swing his fists and yell and scream and murder the two boys standing in front of him.  
HOW DARE THEY?  
Dean didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or scream at the top of his lungs. He wanted to kill them, but he was too weak. His magic had been drained ever since they murdered Seamus. All he could do was stand and listen to the anger pounding in his ears and shake with it, shake with the rage and the aching and the emotion that made it feel like he was going to explode.  
The two boys only stared at him, white-faced, without even saying a word. But Potter’s hand was still on Malfoy’s bloody shoulder and it was DISGUSTING because that DEATH EATER didn’t deserve love.  
They had taken all of Dean’s love away. As far as Dean was concerned, Malfoy didn’t deserve anything.  
“Fuck you,” he whispered, glancing wildly between the two of them. “Fuck both of you. I should murder you right here in the hallway.”  
Potter drew his wand, with his other hand still on Malfoy’s shoulder. Dean trembled with the pure, fiery anger that spiked when he looked at that hand. And he began to laugh hysterically. “Going to kill me, are you?” he threw his hands up in the air. “DO IT! I don’t care! Just get it the fuck over with!” and he was aware that tears were streaming down his face, but he didn’t care. “Finish the bloody job, Malfoy!”  
Malfoy held his hands out, as if he was trying to calm a disobedient puppy. “Dean, I don’t know what you’re talking…”  
Dean practically screamed, clenching his fists and letting it rip apart his throat. “You didn’t even leave when I told you to! Were you waiting for me? Waiting here to kill me? Then DO it! At least finish it! Get the full bloody set, Malfoy! Another trophy for your precious pureblood father!”  
And Dean took a step back, and his back hit the bathroom door with a sickening thud.  
And he started to sob. Shudders wracked his body, making him bend over double as if he was going to vomit. And then the sobs turned into coughs, and they made his entire body shake, because he was so much skinnier now, and he could hardly even stand up.  
“Somnus,” someone whispered.  
Dean fell into a cloud on the floor. It was so warm, and so soft… the coughing continued, dry and painful, but he hardly even felt it. And little tears were slipping down his face, but he didn’t even know that they were there.  
He was asleep within seconds.  
()()()  
Severus was conflicted.  
He had a decision to make. And he was very, very conflicted.  
So he sat with his fingertips pressed together and a bottle of headache potion beside him on the table, and with his eyes closed because it helped him think. It was cold down in the dungeons, bitterly cold, and dark in a way that made Severus want to claw his eyes out. So he had lit a fire in the fireplace, but made sure not to look at it, because now he couldn’t stand to look at fire.  
He would have to return to Malfoy Manor in a few hours, just to make sure that Zabini hadn’t been murdered. So he had to make his decision now.  
How to get rid of Regulus?  
For the headmaster of bloody Hogwarts just couldn’t be a death eater for any extended amount of time. It just wasn’t practical. He would have to go.  
But how?  
Severus considered calling in Minerva and Poppy, to ask them their opinions. But he quickly brushed the thought aside. No, they would just clutter his mind up more with their questions. He needed space to think.  
Well, come to think of it, Minerva was the only one who cluttered up his mind. Poppy was… helpful, actually. He could think clearly when he was around her.  
Severus opened his eyes. At first, all he saw was the darkness of his quarters, and a little circle of blurry light from the fire. He blinked, squinting until the room came into focus. And then he sighed into the same dark, dreary dungeons where the cold seemed to seep into his very bones. He was sitting at a table by the fire, but the flames didn’t seem to be radiating any heat.  
He was always so cold.  
And he couldn’t think when he was cold.  
So Severus opened his desk drawer to pull out a neatly folded piece of parchment, and wrote a note in sloppy cursive: Poppy. Please come meet me in the dungeons. I have something I need to discuss with you.  
Severus.  
And he held the parchment up in his hand, inhaling sharply as it disappeared in a golden flash of wandless magic that left his entire body tingling with warmth.  
()()()  
Draco was shaking.  
And he stared at the boy on the ground, and at Harry’s wand, which was still pointed at his cold face and his closed eyes. The air smelled faintly of electricity and magic, and it was going to make Draco sick.  
“What did you do to him?” he asked, and he didn’t even feel it when Harry’s hand brushed against his own and then gripped it tightly, almost painfully. But he looked, and saw that Harry was taking deep breaths that didn’t work, and that he was shaking too.  
“Sleeping spell. He’ll wake up in about ten minutes,” Harry whispered, in a voice that trembled, and that made Draco’s heart sink into his chest. Then Harry turned to face him. His eyes were wide, his glasses were crooked, and his face was too pale. “Are you okay?” he asked.  
“Me? Am I okay? You look bloody awful!” Draco exclaimed. Perhaps part of him still couldn’t believe what had happened, because he didn’t feel the sickening anxiety rising into his throat, or the fear pressing down on him from all sides. All he felt was a disgusting sense of relief.  
Harry laughed out loud, which was a sign of how stressed he must have been. “You should see your face! You’re pale as a sheet of parchment!”  
Draco smiled. “At least my glasses aren’t as crooked as a hippogriff’s bloody beak,” and he raised his hand and pointed it at Harry’s glasses. He didn’t say a word, but he had to concentrate hard for about ten seconds before they finally righted themselves to sit straight on Harry’s nose. And Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Draco pressed a finger over his lips to stop him. “Let’s go. I can’t stand to be here anymore. And… what should we do about him?”  
They both turned to look.  
Harry sighed. “He’ll wake up in a few minutes. But in the meantime… I don’t suppose we should just leave him there.”  
They silently agreed not to use magic to carry him, because it would have felt strange to lift him as if he were just a piece of baggage. So they worked together to lift Dean up awkwardly, with arms and legs going in all sorts of directions, and eventually managed to sit him upright on a bench in the hallway.  
And then they walked quickly away from there, both equally as anxious to get away from the sleeping figure on the bench, drenched in darkness and with tear-stains still lining his cheeks.  
()()()  
Poppy didn’t normally receive letters. After all, anyone who wanted to find her knew that she would be in the infirmary. And no one outside of Hogwarts would have any reason to contact her.  
But here it was, all the same.  
Owless, it slipped under the door and flew without wings to her desk where it waited silently for her to open it. And Poppy turned away from her book on poisonous fungi and instead picked up the letter with fingers that were trembling (only slightly). Poppy opened the white letter on her white desk in her painfully white office and hoped that it would be something colorful - something exciting. Something that was not about healing potions or boils or infections.  
She ripped it open with her fingernail, and then pulled out the folded piece of paper. Her heart was beating unnaturally fast, and she knew that she shouldn’t be this nervous about a letter, but she was hoping beyond hope that it was from just one person.  
Poppy,  
Please come meet me in the dungeons. I have something I need to discuss with you.  
Severus.  
Short and to the point. Just like Severus.  
And so Poppy jumped out of her chair and practically ran out of her office, quite ridiculously, with her white apron flapping and her hair falling out of its braid. She could have run if she wanted to - she wasn’t that old - but she didn’t want to show up at his doorstep a bloody mess from running halfway across the castle. She walked quickly across the hospital wing - casting a rueful glance at a second year Ravenclaw who was lying in bed with an awful stomach ache - and out the door. Her heart was fluttering in her chest, and it seemed to fly higher and higher with each step she took.  
But the walk seemed much too short, and suddenly she was standing in the dark, cold dungeons in front of his door. The hallway was perfectly quiet, so Poppy could hear her own anxious breathing. Why was she so nervous? It was only Severus, after all.  
Perhaps that was why. Because it was only Severus. No one else would be there but Poppy and him.  
No sense in hesitating any longer. So Poppy prepared her face with a smile, lifted her hand, and knocked, three times. Because the hallway was so incredibly silent, her knocks sounded incredibly loud, and so did the footsteps from the other side of the door, and the unlocking of the door, and turning of the handle, and the creak as it opened.  
“Oh. You came,” Severus said, sounding mildly surprised. His hair was a black curtain hanging over both sides of his face, hanging down in greasy strands. And his face was pale, almost sickly. He was wearing his usual jet-black robes, and he could probably have blended in with the shadows of the hallway if he had wished.  
“Of course I did,” Poppy replied, adjusting her bright white robes without even realizing it. A few pieces of light gray hair had fallen out of her braid, and now they were in her eyes. She was a mess, after all. But she tried to smile to make up for it.  
Severus offered a grimace in return. “Come in,” he said, standing aside and gesturing for her to enter.  
She brushed past him into a dimly lit, and still rather cold room with several rigid chairs arranged in front of a roaring, but ineffective fire. Poppy found herself staring around at the entire room, having never been inside before. She knew where it was, but Severus did not usually allow visitors. But she was immediately drawn to the books on a bookshelf beside the fireplace, and to the shelves of rare potions ingredients lining the walls. It was an impressive collection, and Poppy was definitely impressed.  
But she suddenly felt very out of place, in her stiff white robes. This place was dark and dismal and cold.  
Severus walked past her to a chair by the fire and took a seat. The light from the fire took away a bit of the darkness surrounding him, giving color to his face and light to his eyes. “Sit,” he said, motioning to a chair. “I made tea.”  
Poppy took a seat, and lifted the mug of steaming hot tea that was sitting beside her. “Why, thank you very much,” she said, smiling at him again.  
Severus looked uncomfortable.  
And then Poppy’s smile vanished. “So. Why am I here?”  
Severus’s eyes immediately narrowed, and he leaned forward in his chair. “I’m sure you are aware that we cannot win this war while the headmaster of Hogwarts is a death eater. Something must be done. That is why I called for you, to help me decide what it will be.”  
Poppy hastened to set down her tea so that she wouldn’t drop it. “Me?” she asked, incredulously. “But I’m only the school nurse, Severus! Why not McGonagall, or Flitwick, or an auror? I’m about the least helpful person in this entire school!”  
Severus only shook his head. “You have common sense,” he whispered in his barely audible voice. “And that is more precious than gold.”  
Poppy was at a loss for words. So, instead of speaking, she picked up her mug again and took a sip. When she set it down again, there was a slightly wicked smile on her face, and a glint in her eye. “Tell me everything,” she said.  
()()()  
The clock struck one.  
Pansy watched Anastasia, who was holding both hands against her head as if the chiming was painful. Her face was scrunched up and her eyes were closed. “Are you okay?” Pansy asked, walking closer to put a hand on her shoulder.  
Anastasia flinched, jerking away. She opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment a group of Hufflepuffs came down the hallway, chattering loudly, and Anastasia swallowed whatever she had been about to say.  
Pansy bit her lip. She didn’t know what to do. So she offered a smile that Stasia did not return, and said, “Time for class. We have Transfiguration.”  
Stasia nodded and followed.  
()()()  
The clock chimed.  
Hermione and Ron looked at each other from over their books. And then they set them down on the table, never leaving each other’s eyes. Ron ran his fingers through his hair, and Hermione simultaneous tucked a curl behind her ear. And there were fast heart beats and shaky breaths, and too much silence to be just a normal study session between friends.  
But neither of them said a word as they stood from the table and walked out of the library, side by side, in step, as if it was meant to be.  
()()()  
The clock struck one.  
And Harry and Draco were sitting together in the room of requirement, and Draco’s hands were wrapped around Harry’s arm, which was pointed towards the fire. They were sitting so closely that their shoulders touched, and Harry’s knee was even resting on Draco’s leg, making warmth spread like wildfire through the both of them.  
Harry’s eyes were open, bright and green, and his brows were furrowed in concentration. And all of a sudden, just like wildfire, a burst of yellow sparks exploded in the fireplace, and the roaring flames were replaced with darkness and ash. And Harry gave an embarrassing squeal of delight, putting his arm around Draco’s shoulders and hugging him close so he could press his lips against his.  
“I DID IT!” he cried when they pulled away, and Draco smiled and reached a hand up to ruffle his hair. And then they leapt at each other on the couch, crashing into each other in a pile of pillows and blonde hair and sappy little kisses.  
()()()  
And the clock struck one.  
Severus jumped out of his chair when his forearm began to burn. “Shit!” he cursed under his breath, pressing his left hand against the mark, closing his eyes. And as soon as he stood he felt colder, icier, and the pain was sharper than it had ever been before. He wrapped his robes around himself and wished that he could disappear into the darkness.  
And there was a hand on his shoulder. And Severus opened his eyes to see Poppy, in her bright white robes that looked so out of place, smiling at him as if everything was alright. “Can I see?” she asked, grasping his right hand in hers, send warmth shuddering through the pain, making it better.  
Wordlessly, Severus held out his arm.  
And so Poppy pulled back his sleeve to reveal the twisted, ugly thing that lived there. With the skull’s mouth gaping awfully and the jet-black snake contorted around it, with its mouth wide and teeth sharp. That mark had taken a big, black bite out of Severus, leaving poison to drip into his blood, contaminating him.  
And Severus could not fight the urge to pull it away, to hide it. For anyone who saw that mark would know what he was. It didn’t matter that she had known before. Seeing it was horrible. It made people shudder and it made people cry. And it was hideous and wretched, and it was a part of Severus, so he must be too.  
How could he ever have wanted this?  
It was the worst part of him. And now, it was all that she would see.  
Severus closed his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to look at her, but when he did, all he could focus on was the pain. It ripped his skin, twisted it, needled its way into his mind. It was always there and it was sharp, and he could not get away.  
But then he felt her fingers around his arm and her thumb, rubbing circles into the broken, ruined skin. Making him feel warm. Severus shivered as chills swept through his body, and then he opened his eyes. She was already looking at him. She did not smile, but her eyes did.  
“Isn’t it hideous?” Severus whispered into the quiet, into the darkness of his room.  
Poppy shook her head slightly. “It is a sign of bravery,” she said. She looked down at the mark again, brushing her fingers over it, tracing the snake with her fingertips. And then she raised his arm so that she could press her lips against it. It made Severus’s heart begin to beat again, making blood pump and warmth spread like wildfire throughout his body.  
Poppy raised her head and met his eyes, and gripped his right hand tightly in hers. “But use my mark instead, whenever you need courage.”  
She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. Severus closed his eyes as the warmth spread over the last of his chilled, frozen bones. It was not possible. It made no sense. But he could not dwell on that, not when he was feeling warm again, for the first time in sixteen years.  
()()()  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: an Auror, ribbons, and the birth of a dog.  
> Please leave a review! It would be great to get some feedback on what I'm writing :)


	24. 23 - Tap, Tap, Tap

Twenty-three  
Tap, Tap, Tap.  
-  
()()()  
Blaise stood still as a stone in the middle of their cell.  
And Greengrass stood in front of him.  
They both had their eyes closed, and Blaise’s hands were pressed against her temples, his face contorted in concentration. “Think louder,” he murmured, while his magic boiled and bubbled beneath the surface of his skin. It was wild, twisting around him like fire. And it was almost working. He could feel her fear, her uncertainty. It wouldn’t take much longer.  
She snorted. “I would if I could,” she muttered, with humor inserted into her voice, right where it didn’t belong. This was not the time for jokes.  
“This should work. What does it feel like?”  
“Like what the dark lord did,” she whispered. “Like fingers in my brain, moving things around.”  
Her fear climbed and climbed.  
“Except that it isn’t working,” Blaise hissed through gritted teeth, pouring all of his magic into his hands. He could feel it like a current, pulling on him, but it wasn’t working. What was wrong? “Think louder,” he whispered. “Something strong.”  
“I will,” she muttered.  
But it didn’t work.  
Minutes passed, and it didn’t work. Too much bloody time had passed for it not to work!  
So Blaise pulled back his leg and kicked her, hard, in the foot.  
“Ow!” She yelled, right into his mind.  
Greengrass pushed him away, scowling. But Blaise laughed harder than he had laughed in a long, long time.  
()()()  
“We will not be having Transfiguration today,” Dumbledore announced as he swept dramatically into the room. A little bell dangling from his tall blue hat tinkled merrily, and his eyes twinkled from behind his spectacles.  
And Harry felt some of his worries drift away, because this seemed to be the Dumbledore he knew. Perhaps he had simply been busy for the last few weeks, but now he was back, and his midnight blue robes were ridiculous, and his beard nearly trailed against the floor, and he was Dumbledore.  
The old wizard’s eyes scanned the suddenly silent room until they met Harry’s, briefly, and passed by, to sweep across the rest of the room. And then he smiled, and his eyes were light blue, and he threw his hands up in the air to shout, “We will be having extra dark arts, in preparation for the tournament!”  
The room exploded in cheers. There weren’t many people in Harry’s transfiguration class, it was only the fifth and sixth year Gryffindors. But their cheering filled the room. Dumbledore put his hands out for quiet.  
So everyone put their textbooks under their desks and pulled out their wands, leaning closer to hear what Dumbledore would say.  
Draco leaned in to whisper into Harry’s ear. “But we have a test in two days! Shouldn’t we have class?”  
Harry just sighed. How on earth could Draco possibly want to have Transfiguration instead of Defense class? “Nerd,” he teased, poking Draco in the shoulder.  
Draco smiled, but didn’t laugh.  
“I’m sure Dumbledore thought of that,” Harry assured him. “We’ll probably have it later.”  
Draco looked ridiculously worried. “I hope so,” he said. Harry resisted the urge to sigh dramatically.  
During this entire conversation, Dumbledore had been in the middle of a dramatic pause that left the rest of the students silent and shaking. Now he spoke, in a loud, regal voice that demanded attention. “Please separate into groups with your appointed partners,” he announced, and the room erupted again. People crashed into each other in their haste. Harry saw Pansy and Anastasia, Ron and Hermione, and he saw Longbottom and Ginny together, waiting for him. And there was Dean, alone in the back corner of the room, staring at the ground again.  
Draco went pale.  
“Hey, don’t worry. I’ll ask Dumbledore if we can change partners. Okay?” Harry stumbled over his words in his haste to reassure Draco, because he looked as if he had already withdrawn into himself, like a turtle it its shell, and he was biting his lips viciously as he cast glances at Dean. “Okay?” Harry repeated, louder so that Draco could hear over the wild chatter from every corner of the room. And Harry threw caution to the wind and grabbed Draco’s wrist to squeeze it so that he could feel something real, so that he wouldn’t get lost. “Okay?” Harry whispered, again.  
Draco pulled his hand away. “No! It’s fine. I’m fine,” he cried, sitting up straight, letting his arms drop to his sides, as if that would make it true. “I can handle it,” he said to the floor, without meeting Harry’s eyes.  
Harry raised an eyebrow, but didn’t continue. Didn’t tell Draco that he deserved better than to be harrassed for something he couldn’t change, or that Harry was worried about what would happen if he couldn’t handle it. Harry wasn’t Draco’s bloody mother. He could take care of himself. “Okay then,” Harry said, dubiously. “Hope it goes well.” Draco just nodded, staring at Dean warily out of the corner of his eye.  
He stood, and walked through the crowd of people to where Longbottom and Ginny were waiting. She smiled at him, but Longbottom just grimaced. “Great,” he muttered. “I got stuck with Ron’s idiot sister and the obnoxious poof.”  
Harry and Ginny exchanged a glance. She rolled her eyes. Harry smiled and went to stand by her, away from the hateful idiot who was standing against the wall with his arms crossed. Harry realized that Longbottom had even begun parting his hair in the strangest way possible just to expose that lightning shaped scar. And he was shooting glances across the room at Ron, who was talking to Hermione and blatantly ignoring him.  
Harry smirked.  
And once everyone had been sorted into their groups, Dumbledore waved his wand with a flourish, and little pieces of paper drifted from the ceiling to land in everyone’s hands. Longbottom had trouble catching his, and it slipped through his fingers to the ground.  
Harry met Ginny’s eyes, trying not to laugh. She had her hand over her mouth and was giggling into it, and Harry snorted loudly when he saw her.  
Longbottom picked up his paper, and glared at both of them.  
“These are lists, of the ‘tasks’ you will have to perform in only two days! I trust you will all train hard to be ready when the time comes,” Dumbledore announced, and then stepped back to let them read.  
THE DADA TOURNAMENT  
List of Tasks

Dueling  
Werewolves  
Defensive Spells  
Boggart  
It seemed easy enough.  
“And, instead of your usual DADA professor, you will be instructed by an Auror during the tournament!” Dumbledore announced, raising his arms again.  
A whisper went throughout the room. Harry raised an eyebrow. Weren’t the Aurors supposed to be guarding the castle? But it was only two days… perhaps they had time… he wasn’t sure.  
But then he was distracted by a man, who was stepping out of the doorway behind Dumbledore. He was wearing rather shabby clothes - a frayed jacket, a wrinkled white shirt, and a scarf - and he looked extremely tired. There were bags under his eyes, and his entire face sagged. But he managed to smile happily around at the room full of students, and no one could help but smile cheerfully back.  
“Hello,” he began, bowing slightly as a greeting. “I am…”  
“This is Remus Lupin!” Dumbledore interrupted loudly, putting his hand on Lupin’s shoulder and holding him firmly in place.  
Harry was irked by this. It didn’t seem like Dumbledore to interrupt someone who was trying to introduce themselves… it was just rude. He glanced at Ginny with his eyebrows raised, while the rest of the room burst into applause. Ginny just shrugged and started to clap. Harry joined in.  
And Lupin smiled with false-cheerfulness, while pushing Dumbledore’s hand away from his shoulder. But Dumbledore still wouldn’t give him a chance to speak. “He is an experienced Auror, and will be in charge of our tournament! I trust you will treat him with the utmost respect. And now, we must bid you adieu! However, feel free to practice anywhere inside or outside the castle. Just know that if you break anything you must repair it. Adieu!” Dumbledore cried, turning with a swirl of his beard and a swish of his robes.  
Lupin followed, looking quite stunned.  
()()()  
Severus appeared in Lucius Malfoy’s study with a dramatic swish of his robes and a dark cloud of black sparks. His magic was going slightly crazy, probably because his emotions were so out of his control. He was not used to that. And every flick of his wrist sent a little buzz of accidental energy shooting through his brain, disorienting him.  
But he was calm enough to retain his composure when he was met by the glittering yellow eyes of Lord Voldemort, waiting in the shadows of the study, sitting in an armchair as if it was his throne. His robes were entirely black, and were swallowed up in the darkness, but his face was pale and shone like the moon, with his eyes glowing strangely from within it. Severus met his gaze with shuttered eyes, and without moving a muscle.  
“Impressive”, Blaise thought, from somewhere in the castle.  
Severus didn’t have time to process this, because Voldemort had stood. He towered over Severus and it was daunting, the inhuman face looking down at his. Severus raised his chin.  
“Walk with me,” the dark lord hissed, deep and loud into the silence. Severus bowed his head, and remained a respectful pace behind as Voldemort led him out of the study and into one of Lucius’s ridiculous, sweeping hallways.  
“Occlumency?” Severus asked silently. “You discovered how to properly use it?”  
“I am sure that you are wondering what my plan is for the tournament…” Voldemort hissed into Severus’s ear.  
“It was easy, once I knew what it was. I’ve learned about it before.”  
“Only if you wish me to know, my lord,” Severus murmured, trying frantically to keep track of both conversations. They were both desperately important, and he could not miss a word. He let his eyes trace the diamond pattern on the floor, back and forth, back and forth. It was a bit like pacing around and around, which helped him to think when he was back in Hogwarts.  
Voldemort nodded in approval. “You shall. You have been my faithful servant for many years. And you must know, because you will play a key part. Listen carefully,” and then Voldemort turned on him, like a predator, baring his teeth.  
Severus took a step back, and his back hit the wall. But his eyes did not betray any fear, and he met Voldemort’s eyes without flinching.  
“But firstly,” Voldemort whispered. “Zabini. You have two days. And if he does not meet my standards when those days are through, you will kill him.”  
“Yes, my lord.”  
“He says you have two days”, Severus thought, and then he could feel a stab of fear from the other boy. It felt artificial, and it bounced around in his brain for a few moments before fizzling out.  
Voldemort turned and began to walk again. Severus fell into step behind him.  
“What do we do?  
“How do we get out?  
“Help me!”  
Panic. Desperation. It tasted bitter on Severus’s tongue. And he didn’t know how to tell the poor boy that there was nothing he could do, not without sacrificing a position that was much more important than any of their lives.  
“The tournament is in two days,” Voldemort whispered, as they walked down the hallway. His boots thudded heavily against the ground, pounding into Severus’s mind. He couldn’t think.  
“Why won’t you reply?  
“Say something!”  
“So you have two days to complete your mission,” the dark lord remarked, almost casually, as they turned down another hallway. This one had huge, wide windows, through which they could see ivy and dark green trees and the moon, shining through in slanted streams of light that were painted across the ground.  
It turned Voldemort’s skin silver, and his eyes dark.  
“Sometimes, sacrifices must be made”, Severus thought. “If I cannot think of a safe way to get you out, then perhaps… I cannot.”  
Sugarcoating was for fools.  
“What is my mission, my lord?” Severus asked, keeping his voice, carefully neutral, waiting for the explosion from the other side.  
It didn’t come. Blaise was eerily quiet.  
“I am sure that you are aware of the wolfsbane potion,” Voldemort began. Severus raised an eyebrow, wondering where this was going, but didn’t ask.  
“Are you sure?”  
Was he? Was he sure?  
There could be a way, but right now he couldn’t think of it. Blaise’s cell probably had several charms placed on it that would prevent him from getting out, and he didn’t have his wand.  
Oh.  
Of course.  
“Say something!”  
Severus did not reply.  
“There is a similar, yet stronger, potion that you must brew for me. Canis Ortum - birth of a dog,” Voldemort hissed into the moonlight. “The technical opposite of the Wolfsbane potion. It can change a werewolf into his animal form, even if it is not the full moon. You should find it somewhere in Lucius’ library.”  
Severus tried to hide his confusion. “And who shall I give it to, my lord?” he asked.  
Voldemort grinned wickedly into the darkness, and it was eerie, making chills go up Severus’s spine.  
“Say something! Please!”  
“Remus Lupin,” he whispered.  
Severus forgot to breathe. And he forgot to walk. So he stood frozen, with his heart trying to claw its way out of his chest, while Voldemort stopped ahead of him without even turning his head. “Something the matter?” he asked, in a cold, slimy voice.  
Remus Lupin.  
“Oh my god”, Severus thought.  
“What? What?” Blaise asked, practically hysterical.  
“No,” Severus said, forcing his legs and his lungs to work again. “I just... haven’t heard that name in many years. I wasn’t aware that he was still alive.”  
That was not a lie.  
With James and Lily insane, Pettigrew Voldemort’s slave and Sirius in Azkaban, Severus had assumed that Lupin had met a similar fate. Perhaps he had been killed by a death eater, or had accidentally bitten someone and been sent to Azkaban for it. But apparently not. Apparently, he was at Hogwarts right now, in some indescribably unfair twist of fate.  
Voldemort began to walk again. “He is, luckily, alive and quite well. For now.  
“I am sure that you are aware of his… condition. You will brew the potion for him. You will add the hairs of Potter and Longbottom. You will make the potion activate precisely during the moment in the tournament when Lupin, Potter, and Longbottom are in the same vicinity. It will work, and Lupin will kill the both of them. Do you understand?”  
Severus’s thoughts were spinning. Hairs… of course. The Canis Ortum would work much like Polyjuice potion - but adding the hairs of Potter and Longbottom should make Lupin attack them, and only them, once he changed. It would be the one part of the potion that didn’t fit, and that would cause Lupin to want to destroy anything that smelled like it.  
Perfect. All Severus had to do was brew it perfectly, and then somehow slip Lupin the potion. Easy.  
“He must have no grasp of how difficult potion making is”, Severus thought, rather bitterly.  
“What? Who? You’re making a potion?” Blaise asked, in a quite irritating manner.  
“BE QUIET!” Severus thought-shouted, clenching his fists and making black sparks shower down into the carpet.  
And then Severus realized that he had forgotten to reply.  
Voldemort was staring at him, glaring at him, with his yellow eyes glowing violently in the darkness. The shadows cut deep into his skin, and he looked like a skeleton.  
“I said, do you understand?” he hissed, angry and cold..  
“Yes, my lord,” Severus replied, bowing his head.  
And Severus felt Legilimency, cold and wrong, licking at his brain. He quickly forced a wall over his link with Blaise and then shoved his thoughts away into the darkness, letting things like honestly and loyalty drift to the surface, pretending that the were real. It was so easy.  
Voldemort ended the spell with a curt nod, and Severus relaxed his breathing. Voldemort let his glowing yellow eyes sweep over Severus. And then he nodded again. “You may return.”  
Severus bowed his head, and Voldemort turned to walk away.  
Suddenly, Severus called out. “Wait!”  
An idea.  
“Zabini, the Slytherin,” he said. “He… is a lost cause. I should never have suggested it.”  
Voldemort’s eyes glowed. He didn’t move. Then he raised his chin, and said in a cold voice, “No, you shouldn’t. I will have him killed immediately,” and he turned on his heel with his robes flying and walked away down the hallway, with his footsteps echoing off the walls.  
Severus Apparated away with a swish of his robes and a pop.  
()()()  
“Okay,” Draco tried. “Do you want to go practice somewhere?”  
Dean was holding his wand so tightly that his knuckles were white. He was staring at the little piece of paper on the table and he wouldn’t meet Draco’s eyes. “No,” he said.  
Draco sighed. “Well… do you want to practice here?”  
There were several people still in the transfiguration room. Harry, Ginny, and Longbottom, a large group of gossiping Hufflepuffs, and few other random teams who had decided to stay. Minerva was sitting at the front of the room, supervising.  
Dean shook his head. “I’ll practice by myself, you filthy…”  
Draco cut him off. “But we’re a team. We have to practice together, or else we’ll never…”  
Dean whirled around to face him. And his eyes were burning, sharp and angry. Draco took a step back. “No!” Dean yelled, catching the attention of everyone in the room. “Go away!”  
Draco nodded, trying to stop his hands from shaking, and walked away to a corner of the room. And there he clenched his fists and wished that he was alone so that he could scream, because it was so bloody unfair. After everything he had done, and everything he had suffered through to join Harry’s side, they still didn’t believe him.  
Draco walked across the room, ignoring how everyone was watching him, even ignoring Harry’s eyes, and walked out the door.  
And down a hallway. And he began to follow the voices that were echoing down the hallway ahead of him, little scraps of a conversation. Draco trailed after it without even thinking, without really caring what they were saying, but he needed something to distract himself.  
And then he realized who they were. Because that was Dumbledore’s old, creaking voice, and Lupin’s kind, smiling one, coming from just around the corner. And Draco’s melancholy faded away, and he melted into the shadows of the hallway. They were just around the corner, he could see where the candlelight had burned their shadows into the wall.  
Dumbledore spoke, with his big wizard’s hat jingling, and his hands moving wildly as he spoke, as if to illustrate his point. “What is the matter, Remus? Do you not want the position? I’ll have you know that there weren’t many other options. If you’re not here, the students may have to go without an instructor, and that would…”  
“No, no, not at all, Albus. I will gladly accept the position,” Lupin replied. His voice was hoarse now, deeper, and it didn’t sound like he was smiling anymore. “And, again, I thank you for moving the tournament away from the full moon. You’ve had to do so much work just so I can teach here, and I am grateful for that. You know that this is my dream…”  
Dumbledore interrupted loudly. “Then what is the matter, Remus? Spit it out!”  
Lupin took a step back, and Draco listened closely, crouching down into the shadows, trying to quiet his breathing.  
“Well… Albus, it’s just… I’m not an Auror. And I thought you were aware of…”  
“You aren’t?”  
“No! We spoke in September, remember? And I told you that they refused to accept me because of my condition! I thought you would have remembered,” Lupin replied, sounding hurt. “And at least, you should have let me speak! The students should know who their own teacher is.”  
“But… but you’re a part of the Order of the Phoenix. I thought for certain that they would have accepted you…”  
Lupin nearly shouted. “If I were an Auror, do you think I would be wearing this?”  
Draco watched their shadows dance as they argued, as tall as giants on the wall in front of him. He wasn’t quite sure what this conversation meant, but he waited with bated breath for any piece of important information, and he crouched deeper in the shadows to hide himself.  
“Another thing, Albus,” Lupin continued, once he had calmed down. “The way that the tasks are set up… they seem much too dangerous. I…”  
Dumbledore interrupted him again. “Do not worry, my dear boy. Much like any tournament, I simply took the liberty of, shall I say, dramatizing each aspect of the tournament. I assure you that everything will be perfectly safe. I have implemented many precautions. After all, I would not wish to see a single one of my students hurt. They are very important to me.”  
There was a silence, during which neither of their shadows moved. Draco could hear nothing but his own breathing in his ears.  
“Are you sure?” Lupin asked, severing the silence.  
“Yes. Now, go on. I’m sure you have some settling in to do. After all, you will be here for two more days.”  
Draco could see Lupin nod. “Well, I will speak with you at supper, then,” he said, bowing slightly and turning away. And panic shot up Draco’s spine when he realized that Lupin was walking towards him, and was about the turn the corner.  
Quickly, Draco got to his feet. And he began to walk forward, as scary as it was, pretending that he just happened to be walking down this same hallway. When Lupin turned the corner he stopped, and their eyes met.  
Draco kept walking, keeping his face blank. But then Lupin held out his hand for him to stop. Neither of them spoke, only watched as Albus’s shadows disappeared around the corner, and the clicking of his footsteps went with him. The seconds seemed to last forever.  
Then it was silent, and they were alone.  
“What did you hear?” Lupin asked, with a raised eyebrow.  
Panic. Oh god, he was caught. Draco took a step backward, and the fear must have shown on his face.  
“Do not worry, you’re not in trouble. In fact, what you heard is not important. Nothing of what we said will have any meaning to you. But a more prevalent question would be… just what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be practicing with your partner?” Lupin asked kindly, with his hands folded behind his back, and a slight smile on his face.  
Draco opened his mouth to lie… but something about Lupin made him feel as if he could tell him. After all, Draco hadn’t done anything wrong! It was all Dean’s fault. Perhaps if he told Lupin, he could end up with a different partner. It would be much easier than telling Dumbledore.  
“He didn’t want to practice with me,” Draco said. It was part of the truth. He didn’t want to retell the whole incident.  
Lupin seemed to understand. “No need to worry. You may practice with me, if you wish. I don’t mind, really. Most of the staff don’t seem to want anything to do with me,” he remarked, almost sadly. And then he held out his hand. “Remus Lupin. You are?”  
This was ridiculous - surely he already knew who Draco was. And if he didn’t, then… what would he think once he did?  
But that was ridiculous. Draco shouldn’t have to be ashamed of his own name, or afraid of what others would think. And besides, Lupin didn’t seem like the type of person who would judge him based on his family name.  
“Draco Malfoy,” Draco whispered, taking his hand and shaking it.  
Lupin smiled cheerfully. “Well, Draco, why don’t we go to the Defense classroom? Contrary to Albus’s beliefs, I don’t feel like getting ‘settled in’, when there are so many much more useful things to accomplish.”  
Draco nodded, smiling. “That sounds good.”  
()()()  
When Severus Apparated into his quarters, he stumbled and fell straight into Poppy’s arms.  
She pushed him upright and held him in place tightly with her hands around his arms. “Are you alright? Did anything happen? Does anything hurt?” she asked, quickly, her face full of concern, as if he was a patient.  
Severus brushed her away. “I’m fine,” he muttered. “I need quiet, please. This is important.”  
Poppy backed away quickly without asking questions, which Severus greatly appreciated. Then he closed his eyes, reaching out with all of his magic. Sending it out like colorful ribbons, leading him back to the manor. He built a map and traced the lines, flying over the cities and the countryside. It was clumsy, because he was working so fast and had so little time, but he found it. He flew over the sprawling green lawns, and eventually, the ribbons stopped just in front of the dark, somber mansion with its elegance and its cold.  
He sent them in.  
Into the grand entrance hall, where Lucius Malfoy was standing, staring at the fire. The ribbons swirled, dancing around his head, but Severus pressed them onward, to the stairs that led down, down into darkness. Turning down hallways that he had memorized until he reached the dungeons.  
To a cell, where Blaise was waiting for him. He was huddled in the corner, and beside him lay Greengrass, asleep on the floor. Their cell must have been cold, because Blaise had goosebumps on his arms and he was folded in on himself with his arms around his knees. He and Greengrass were pressed together, possibly to reserve body heat.  
There was a guard watching them, sitting in front of their cell. Severus touched the ribbon to his forehead, and he fell fast asleep.  
And Severus reached out the velvet, colorful ribbons and touched them to Blaise’s temples. Blaise’s eyes shot open into darkness.  
“You’re here! How are you doing that?” He asked, eyes wide.  
“The ‘how’ is not important.” Severus replied. “Listen carefully. The guard is asleep. He will not wake up, unless you wake him. But someone will come down here, soon, to kill both of you. Voldemort may be with him. If you are still here when they arrive, I cannot help you.”  
Blaise was silent. Severus could see the gears turning in his mind, fitting together just what was happening. Hiding his fear behind shuttered eyes. Then he nodded. “How do we get out?”  
“Wandless magic”, Severus whispered into the darkness. “Will not be strong enough to destroy the spells protecting these bars. But you can use it to get the guard’s wand.”  
Blaise nodded. Without hesitating, he stretched out his arm toward the sleeping guard. The wand in his pocket immediately shot across the room and into his outstretched hand. Blaise must not have realized how powerful he truly was. Otherwise, he certainly could have escaped already.  
He kicked Greengrass in the shoulder. “Wake up,” he whispered.  
“Now go.”  
Severus let the ribbons slip through the bars and up the stairs. And there he saw Lucius, at the top of the dark staircase, pulling on a pair of black gloves. His hair was back in a tight ponytail tied with a black ribbon, and his face was sharp and deathly pale. His cane was beside him. Three more death eaters stood behind him, and Voldemort ahead.  
They began to walk down the staircase.  
“Fuck fuck fuck”, Severus thought, wishing that he could kick something in his current state. They wouldn’t get away, after all.  
But he sent the ribbons flying back downstairs anyway. “They’re coming”, he said to Blaise, who had escaped from the cell and was now dragging Greengrass down the dungeon hallway.  
He hid his fear well. She did not. She was practically clinging to him, whimpering, and shaking badly. Blaise pushed her away so that he could press closer to the wall, hiding in the shadows underneath the faint circles of yellow candlelight.  
“How close?” He asked.  
“Too close”, Severus replied, grimly.  
But Blaise stopped dead in the hallway and squeezed his eyes shut. Delicate ribbons of magic began to spread out from his fingertips - the wand lay unused in Greengrass’s pocket. But he didn’t seem to need it. For one moment they were standing in the darkness, with his dark eyes gleaming and her entire body shaking, and then they were gone.  
But Severus could see the ribbons trailing after them as they walked, silently except for Greengrass’s whimpering, down the hallway, towards Voldemort and his death eaters. The closer they got, the more Greengrass shook, and Severus was certain that she would give them away.  
But when Voldemort came into view she stopped shaking and the ribbons stayed huddled against the wall, silent as the shadows. Severus watched, forgetting to breathe, as Voldemort walked towards them down the hallway. His robes swept along beside him, his death eaters walked behind him, matching him step for step.  
Lucius’s cane tapped against the ground with each step that they took. Tap tap tap. They drew closer.  
Greengrass whimpered, loudly.  
Lucius held up his hand, and they stopped.  
No one breathed.  
And then, as if on cue, they began to walk again. Step after step. Tap tap tap. Severus’s heart would have been pounding horribly in his chest if he could have felt it.  
Tap, tap…  
“What is that?” Lucius asked, sounding amused. Everything stopped. He poked something with his cane again. “That’s not the dungeon floor, my lord.”  
“Oh god.”  
“Fuck fuck fuck.”  
Severus heard Greengrass whisper, because he was so close. “Make me visible again,” she whispered. And then she was. Exposed and alone in the shadows of the dungeon hallway.  
She screamed and leapt at them, slamming against Lucius and making him hit the wall, clawing at his face with her fingernails. She punched and kicked and hit and screamed at anything that moved, until she was hit with a burst of green light and fell to the ground.  
And the delicate white ribbons crept silently away.  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: dueling, fire, and a funeral.  
> So... please review? it only takes a few seconds!


	25. 24 - Three is Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Silver Sailor Ladybug for being such an awesome beta, and giving me all the encouragement I need to keep writing.  
> PLEASE READ THE A/N AT THE END!

Twenty-Four.  
Three is Enough.  
()()()  
"When something awful happens to you, the best you can do is pick yourself up and move on. You can't always heal from it. And sometimes you can't walk away. You might end up limping, or crawling. But distance - time - is the greatest healer. Better than anything Madam Pomfrey could ever do," Lupin said.  
It sounded like he was talking about something else - something other than what had happened to Draco.  
"And Dean… he will grow to understand. I speak from experience, my dear boy. Sometimes, it takes people a long, long time to understand that you aren't the monster they think you are."  
Draco let the words sink down into his stomach, and roll around inside his gut.  
Yes, he had broken down and told Lupin everything. Because he had been so kind, and he had made them tea and he had taught him defense spells without ever asking why he was really all alone without his partner, and without saying a word about what had happened to him, or about his death eater parentage. He didn't even look at him strangely, with pity or anger in his eyes. It was new. It was refreshing.  
Lupin heaved a great sigh. "When I was young, I had three great friends. Wonderful friends. Back then, I believed that they were the best friends anyone could possibly have."  
Draco took a sip of tea, meeting Lupin's eyes. He was smiling, but his eyes were sad. Deep and watery and sad.  
"And now, they are gone," he said, simply, and his smile wavered slightly. Draco had the sense that Lupin wasn't looking at him at all, but was seeing someone else, someone far away. Was that how Dean felt? Would he never stop missing Seamus?  
And it seemed impossible that he would ever stop hating Draco, when his best friend had been murdered by death eaters. Death eaters, just like Draco's father. It made Draco want to vomit, that anyone could ever think that he would do something like that.  
"I'm sorry," Draco said to Lupin.  
His smile returned. "Thank you. But things like this are just a part of life. Everyone will experience loss. You, me, Dean," he shrugged, and took a long, long drink of his tea.  
And it was nice to sit there, in silence. In the DADA classroom, just together at a desk. The textbooks Lupin had brought lay forgotten beside their wands on the floor. Draco had a feeling that Lupin enjoyed talking to him just as much as Draco enjoyed talking to Lupin.  
It was so nice.  
()()()  
Blaise took off at a run down the hallway without looking back.  
And he heard nothing but his own breathing, loud in his ears, and Severus's voice. "Run!" He screamed into Blaise's head. "Don't stop!"  
Blaise took a sharp left, hurtling down another hallway with the magic that was coursing through his veins making him run faster than should be possible, letting him go on and on without getting tired. And the adrenaline rush pounded itself into his arms and his legs and he forgot everything but running.  
He reached a staircase and he was at the top before he remembered climbing. He ran past a group of death eaters without stopping. And he spun around a corner, almost falling, only to find another staircase instead of a door. He must have passed the exit. But that didn't matter - he would just keep going. He couldn't stop now.  
They were running after him. He could hear their footsteps. And even though they couldn't see him, Blaise had no doubt they could still kill him. So he ran up the staircase and turned, only to find another and keep climbing, climbing, climbing. There was no time to stop and no time to think.  
"Where are you going?"  
Ha! As if he knew.  
He just wanted to run.  
And then he reached a window. It was high up in the middle of the wall, over his head. But that didn't matter. Blaise jumped, and he landed perched on the windowsill like a bird. And, just like before, oh so long ago, he flung the window open.  
He was completely numb.  
"What are you doing? Be careful!"  
Careful? What was the point in being careful? People would die either way. It didn't fucking matter.  
Their footsteps were behind him. Blaise didn't look to see who it was. He didn't care. He braced his hands against the window frame and hoisted himself up into the cold, frigid air outside. And stared down at the dizzying drop below into an ocean of dark green grass.  
The sun was dropping down over the trees, making spiked shadows dance across the lawn. They looked like daggers, ready to slice him and cut him into pieces if he jumped. Perfect. He didn't want to feel numb anymore, he wanted to hurt.  
More than that, he just wanted to do something. He needed a distraction. He didn't want to feel.  
The footsteps grew louder, and then he saw them. Beneath him in the grey hallway with the checkerboard carpet. Lucius was jabbing his cane wildly in all directions, the other death eaters were feeling around stupidly with their hands. But Voldemort's eyes met his immediately. And they should have made Blaise tremble, he should have felt fear.  
But he felt nothing.  
He blinked, and the spell was gone, and he was visible again.  
"What are you DOING?" Severus screamed.  
Blaise clenched his fists, and the connection snapped shut. Severus's voice was gone.  
They were all looking at him. They raised their wands. "Say your last words," Voldemort whispered, his voice icy.  
Blaise smiled, and let go.  
He fell.  
And fell.  
With the sun spinning around in a circle above his head, and the lawn rushing up to meet him. It was almost peaceful. Perhaps he could have seen Greengrass again, if he had only let himself fall for a few more moments.  
Blaise closed his eyes while the wind whipped through his hair and made him feel alive again. It rushed into his lungs and forced him to live. It made sparks crackle through his body. And it whirled around him, dancing, making him spin.  
A snap of his fingers, and it all stopped. Perfectly still. Blaise lay a few feet above the ground, staring at the sun, breathing quietly. And then he brought his feet to the ground and pushed himself up. His entire body was alive with magic. He could do anything.  
Blaise walked closer and pressed his hand against the elegant white wall of Malfoy Manor. And around it, flames grew like snakes. And they snapped viciously in the wind and devoured everything they touched.  
Blaise drew his hand away and wiped it on his shirt.  
And then he ran, ran, ran to the edge of the Manor's wide, expensive lawns. He turned to take one last look at the mansion with the smoke billowing out of its windows, and the red and the orange and the yellow smeared across the it like ink on white parchment.  
And then he Apparated away.  
()()()  
Severus stared at the fireplace. He was standing like a tall, too-thin shadow, with his chin cupped in his hand and his dark eyes reflecting the flames. His mind felt darker than normal. There was a cold place where the connection with Blaise had been.  
Poppy stood behind him in her bright white robes, rubbing soothing circles into his shoulders. Severus wanted to tell her to go away, but he was too tired. Too exhausted to face the hurt that would be in her eyes, because she only wanted to help him.  
And besides… it did sort of make his shoulders feel better. Only a little bit, of course. And he would have been just fine without her.  
Just fine.  
But the seconds stretched out into agony. Severus could do nothing but replay what had happened, over and over again, and wait. For some sign. For anything that would tell him that Blaise was okay. He hadn't expected to care so much but he did. And he knew that if Blaise was dead, the guilt would rip him into pieces.  
Waiting, waiting, waiting.  
"What was it that you were saying, earlier?" Poppy asked, neatly breaking the silence into pieces.  
Severus didn't move, didn't look at her. "Killing Regulus," he said, in a voice that was unnaturally deep and even more solemn than usual. And quiet, so quiet that the crackling of the fire almost drowned him out.  
Poppy pressed harder into his back, and it actually started to ache. "Well, what should we do?"  
And it struck Severus that she was right. In the end, killing Regulus was much more important than saving Blaise. He sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, even though he didn't have a headache. He should, but he had drank so much potion that it had finally gone away.  
"I had considered having you or Minerva just… hit him with something," Severus admitted. "It would work. The dark lord doesn't know that you know that Regulus is here… and I could explain it away, somehow, say that Regulus was just a bad actor and you saw right through him. And perhaps we could fool the Ministry into thinking that…"  
"I won't kill him," Poppy interrupted. "I'm a nurse. I heal, I don't hurt. Even death eaters."  
Severus took a step forward and turned, to move her hands from his shoulders. And he glared at her. "He'll kill them, Poppy! He was sent here to kill the students you swore to protect! There must be a place where your duties end and your loyalties begin. Find it."  
Poppy met his eyes without blinking. "You don't think I have? Albus employed me for a reason, Severus. Did you never think of the hundreds of other healers who were sent to St. Mungo's or other hospitals, and wonder why they are there, and I am here?" she took a step forward. "Because I play no favorites. Gryffindor or Slytherin, pureblood or muggleborn, it means nothing to me. All I see is a person who needs help."  
Severus, too, took a step forward, so that he was looking down on her from above, and they were both outlined in the red of the flames, and shadowed in the darkness of his quarters. "And that is your greatest weakness," he whispered. "Poppy, if I cannot ask you to help me do this, then I will have to turn to Minerva, who will only do something rash and stupid. And there is no one else! No one else knows the truth. So help me decide what to do."  
"What should I do?"  
Severus turned immediately towards the fire, away from her prying eyes. And he was unable to keep the relief, or the urgency, out of his voice. "Blaise!" he called out, shutting his eyes, submerging himself in darkness, the better to hear.  
Breathing. Heavy breathing, loud in his ears. Running. He was running. Severus could feel his legs moving, even though he was standing perfectly still. It was strange, it wasn't right. But he couldn't bring himself to pull away. Shapes formed on the edges of his vision and disappeared just as quickly, as everything vanished as he ran by. It was dark here. But he caught a glimpse of the pale crescent moon, high above, shining so brightly that it nearly burned his eyes.  
Severus wanted to ask so many questions. How did he escape? Did they see him? But he chose the most important one, burning into the front of his mind. "Where are you going?"  
"I don't know!" Blaise replied, in between heavy breaths. He sounded desperate and afraid. "I Apparated - somehow, but I've never done it before and I don't know where I am… I…"  
Severus was forced out of his vision when something hit him, directly in the chest, with a force that brought him to his knees and pushed the air out of his lungs. The connection snapped shut. He gasped for air, wrapping his arms tightly around himself and bowing his head.  
Poppy immediately wrapped her arms around him, but he pushed her away with a wave of his hand. "No," he managed to whispered, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. "It's nothing wrong with me. Something happened to Blaise…"  
"You found him?" she gasped, twisting a piece of her white apron in her hands, with the red of the fire reflecting strangely off her face.  
Severus stood. Immediately, he lurched drunkenly to the right, and he leaned heavily against the wall to support himself. He leaned his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the awful, collapsing feeling in his chest to lessen so that he could stand. It didn't.  
So he pushed himself away from the wall and walked with his body folded slightly and his arms wrapped tightly around his middle, wobbling towards where Poppy was standing, in the middle of the room, staring at him with her mouth slightly open. She looked small all of a sudden, but that didn't stop Severus from grabbing her shoulders with both hands, and gripping them tightly. "Quickly - take the bracelet. And Apparate into the forest beyond Malfoy Manor. You should find him, he can't have gone far. And when you do, just…"  
She interrupted him, pulling away with a horrified look on her face. "Severus! But the death eaters… I'm not trained for this! I…" and she looked at his face, at the grim look in his eyes, and realized how foolish she sounded. This was important, this mattered, and she knew that. Severus watched her eyes widen as she realized what she was about to do, and then she closed her mouth and nodded. "What do I do?"  
Severus smiled grimly. "Find him. Quickly. And heal him. And bring him… take him to Hagrid's hut. I'll meet you there."  
Poppy grabbed his wrist and removed the tiny bracelet, slipping it onto her own wrist. "This will let me Apparate?" she asked, as she picked her cloak up off the sofa and pulled it over her shoulders.  
Severus nodded. "It will allow you to surpass any anti-Apparition spells. You'll be able to Apparate within the boundaries of Malfoy Manor, and directly into Hogwarts." And then a wave of fresh pain hit him, in his ribs. Blaise must have attempted to break free of whatever was holding him down. It was sickening, and if it was real, Severus felt certain that one of his ribs would have cracked. He fell carefully to the floor and leaned heavily against the wall, breathing heavily, sweating because of the ache.  
Poppy glanced at him with eyes full of concern. "Do you want a potion for the…"  
Severus interrupted her. "It won't do any good, I'm not feeling real pain! And there's no time, anyway! Go!" he snapped, waving his hand before grunting heavily as the pain overtook him again and he fell with a grunt to the ground, lying on his side with his knees to his chest, a small pile of black robes.  
Poppy nodded grimly, flicked her wand, and disappeared.  
And Severus lay in the silence, with nothing to focus on but the blinding, mind-numbing pain, and the faint ticking of the clock.  
Until the door opened.  
And Regulus walked in.  
()()()  
Blaise had been running.  
He didn't know where he was, or where he had Apparated to. But it couldn't be far. For the woods that rushed past him were dark and cold, just like the ones around Malfoy Manor. And, for some reason, he continued to run just the same, almost as if his body knew that he was still in danger.  
And then there were a quick flash of light from somewhere to his right. Blaise twisted around to see, and it hit him in the chest. He was thrown backwards, and the world flipped sickeningly. Suddenly his back hit against a tree, painfully, making his head snap backwards and slam against the trunk with a thud. And he couldn't move - something was holding him there, slowly squeezing against his chest. He gasped, and his voice was raw, and he tried to breathe through his crushed lungs.  
Theodore Nott emerged from the trees, with his wand pointed at Blaise's forehead.  
"What… the hell are you doing…?" Blaise whispered. Each word felt like it was being ripped out of his throat, but he said it anyway. And he groaned when the spell pushed deeper into his chest, and the horrible weight grew heavier on his chest. The pressure was unbearable. If Blaise was someone who cried, he would have been crying then.  
Nott stepped closer. He looked the part of a wary wolf, stalking through the woods, silently. And his eyes darted back and forth, and he checked behind himself. "Is anyone else here?" he asked.  
Blaise managed to smile mirthlessly, even though the pain was horrible. He forced it to the back of his mind. "There's no one else," he said, with a dry laugh. "I'm the only one left!" he cried, and then broke out into painful, heaving coughs. He convulsed helplessly when the pain returned in full, sickening force, terrible waves of it.  
Nott didn't move, but waited patiently for the coughing to stop. "Where are you going?" he asked, with his wand still pointed to the spot right in between Blaise's eyes. Blaise focused on it, watched it shake.  
Nott wouldn't do it. Surely, he wouldn't. They had been… acquaintances for years. Not quite friends, but they had tolerated each other. And he wouldn't do it.  
"I'm not betraying him," Blaize hissed, with his voice cracked and hoarse. "I swear it. I wear the dark mark on my arm, just like the rest of you. How could I betray my destiny?"  
Nott took a step forward. "Then tell me where you are going!" he snapped, glaring at Blaise. "And do it now, before I'm obliged to take you back. Or kill you," he added.  
Blaise's face was an empty mask. But he let a smirk crawl its way over his lips, and he watched the way that Nott's eyes widened, and he took an unknowing step back. "I'd like to see you try," he whispered, as the magic burned its way into the air around him, crackling and sparking like flames. The grass sizzled beneath his fingers.  
Nott took another step back. "They took your wand," he said, and it sounded like he was trying to convince himself. "You can't hurt me. If you move, I'll kill you."  
Blaise closed his eyes, smiling as he lifted the weight off of his chest, and let it shatter silently into pieces. He remained crouched, with his face twisted as if he was in pain, but he couldn't keep the smile off of his face.  
A twig snapped.  
Nott whirled, and shot a jet of light into the air. At the same time, Blaise reached out a steady hand and Nott fell quietly to the ground. Dead, probably. Blaise wasn't exactly sure what he had done. It was like the magic had a mind of its own.  
He stood, brushing dirt off of his robes. And he waited, with his hand outstretched, for something to move. He wasn't nervous, he was smiling. He felt like he could destroy anything and everything in his path, and that he held all the power in the world in his hand. It felt that way. The magic was coursing through his veins, making him feel so alive.  
Something moved. Something bright, and white. Looking entirely out of place in the darkness of the forest. Blaise squinted, trying to make out their face. But he couldn't see.  
"Don't worry," they said, and they held their arms out in a gesture of surrender. Blaise took a step forward, without lowering his hands. It was evidently a woman's voice, and a rather old woman, at that. Probably around forty, which was an unusual age for a death eater… And Blaise didn't remember seeing any middle-aged woman wearing ridiculously white robes. But he didn't lower his arms, for how could it be anything else? He would just outside of Malfoy Manor, who else could be here?  
"I'm not the one who should be worried," Blaise replied, grimly, with bright sparks flying from his hands in clumps to land, sizzling, on the grass. "Tell me who you are, quickly. Don't lie," he added, and easily found his way into her mind, tasting the air, feeling her emotions.  
Concern.  
Disbelief.  
Hurry, hurry, hurry.  
And thoughts flew through the air like bats. Loud, standing out.  
"That can't be the student. No student would kill someone, just like that!"  
As if he wanted to kill Nott. No, Blaise hated death. And, if he had been in any state for rational thought, the fact that he had just murdered Theodore Nott would have made him want to vomit.  
But he wasn't. Instead, he took another step forward. "Who are you?" He demanded, loudly. "Tell me!"  
She took a step forward, into the pale moonlight that was filtering through the skeletal branches overhead. And she was Madam Pomfrey.  
Immediately, Blaise was on his guard. That didn't make any sense. Pomfrey was a healer. If someone had been sent to find him, it would not be her. And besides, why would Snape send someone instead of coming himself?  
"Poppy Pomfrey," she whispered, with her wand still in her pocket and her hands held up in front of her. "And Sev… Snape sent me to come get you. I swear, it's true. Use Legilimency all you like. But hurry. I need to get back, and make sure that he's alright."  
Her words hung in the air, and then it was quiet. They watched each other. Blaise didn't move, didn't even blink. His face was a mask. But inside, his thoughts were whirling, and all jumbled up in their haste to be heard.  
What's wrong with Snape?  
And how did she find me, anyway?  
Why Pomfrey? Why would he send her?  
But he ignored that, and focused on the haste, concern, and disbelief that were running around inside her mind, without a lie to be found. She was telling the truth.  
And Blaise felt fear, that he was wrong. And hope, that he wasn't. Anxiety, at the thought of putting his life in the hands of another. But Severus had sent her, and Severus would never lie.  
Trust.  
Blaise let his hands fall to his sides. "Okay," he whispered, stepping forward into the moonlight. And he hoped that he wasn't making a grave mistake.  
()()()  
"My boy, I do feel for you. I really do. But trust… is a difficult thing to obtain," Lupin said, as he deftly blocked Draco's stunning smell. It bounced away from his wand and crashed into the side of the wall, blasting a hole in it. They both turned to look, and then continued with their duel.  
"But after all that's happened… I don't understand how they can still feel this way," Draco replied, as he neatly sidestepped a purple flash of light. Lupin nodded approvingly.  
They were standing on opposite ends of the classroom, with all the chair folded against the wall. And Lupin had locked the doors so that they could practice uninterrupted, but they had ended up spending the whole time talking as they practiced.  
It was the strangest thing, but Lupin seemed to understand Draco in a way that no one else did. Draco didn't know what had happened to him to make him feel this way, but whatever it was had brought them close together in a matter of minutes.  
"People have preconceived notions about certain groups of people. Stereotypes. And perhaps they have never even met you, or perhaps they've known you for years, but if they know who your father is, they will buy into that stereotype. You must understand where they are coming from, my boy. All the other former Slytherins are the children of death eaters. Every last one. And nearly every last one of them fled to Voldemort as soon as they got the chance." Lupin spun dramatically, and flung a hissing, spitting black spell right at Draco's forehead. He ducked just in time, and it burned a hole in the wall behind him.  
Draco stayed crouched low to the ground, breathing hard. He ran a hand through his hair, and rubbed the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand. "But I didn't!" he exclaimed, once he had caught his breath. "Pansy and I - we stayed! And I lost my family for that decision."  
Lupin nodded solemnly, and leaned back against the wall as well, to catch his breath. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his shabby robes and smiled sadly. "They are too afraid to care. People have died because of death eaters, people who were very close to some of your classmates. But, Draco, the ones who matter will understand." He smiled at Draco from across the room. "Harry, Pansy, Hermione… they understand, don't they?"  
"That's only three," Draco said, bitterly.  
"In my experience, three is enough," Lupin said. And his voice didn't change, but Draco could see his eyes shining strangely, almost as if he was about to cry.  
()()()  
For those first five minutes, Severus could barely hold it together. He could hardly keep his mask on, and pretend that he was just sitting in the corner casually for no reason, and come up with a decent excuse as to why he was doing it, when every part of him wanted to scream. It hurt like hell.  
But Severus gritted his teeth, and held it together.  
"What are you doing on the floor?" Regulus asked, pretending not to sound suspicious. He had a ridiculous smile on his face, and he slammed the door behind himself with a swish of his robes. "Seems like a strange place to be."  
Severus shifted painfully into a more natural position. He forced himself to lean back against the wall, and untwisted his face so that it looked like everything was just fine. "Don't talk like him, Regulus. It's frankly… degrading. As for where I'm sitting… it's my room, isn't it? But feel free to take a seat," Severus said, waving towards one of the chairs by the fire.  
And Severus sent a silent prayer to Merlin that Poppy would remember what he had told her, and take the boy to Hagrid's hut instead of Apparating directly into Severus's quarters. If that happened… they might have no choice but to kill Regulus then and there.  
But perhaps that wouldn't be a bad thing. Severus narrowed his eyes, watching Regulus sit down in the chair, looking completely at ease. He didn't expect a thing. Severus could simply raise his wand and kill him, right where he sat. But if that happened, was there any way to retain his connection with the dark lord? And without that connection, they would not know what he was planning.  
They would lose the war.  
If only he had more time. But he didn't. He only had two days.  
"I just wanted to speak with you about the tournament," he began. Without even checking to make sure that no one was listening, or that there were no spells on the room. He really was too trusting, wasn't he? Severus narrowed his eyes even furthur, into slits. That could be his undoing.  
"Of course," Severus replied. "He has already told me his plans, but go on. If there is more, I would like to hear of it."  
Regulus nodded. "Of course he has told you. I did not doubt that. But I was told to give you this," and he pulled a big, black book out of his robes, and held it out for Severus to take. Above his head. So that he would have to stand.  
Severus groaned inwardly. But he braced his back awkwardly against the wall, so that it supported most of his weight as he tried to stand. And he forced himself to get to his feet, even though his entire body was screaming. And then one of his knees gave out and he was falling sideways, pressed awkwardly and painfully against the wall. His body betrayed him and he curled in close to himself, with his hands around his middle. He fell with a grunt to the ground. He turned his face away from Regulus to hide the agony that must have shown there, and let his hair fall over his eyes. But it didn't help. Everything hurt.  
If this was hard for him, how must Blaise feel?  
But Severus couldn't dwell on that. For Regulus was staring at him openly, with his mouth hanging open. "Are you okay?" he asked, in a way that was rather strange for a death eater. It actually sounded as if he cared, however slightly.  
Severus forced himself to nod, trying to pull himself back together. (It was a lost cause, but he had to try.) "I..." he tried, but his chest exploded into painful, horrible coughs. Aching, hollow coughs. And he buried his face in his knees, in such a humiliating, childish way. His mind screamed at him, not in front of Regulus!  
But it hurt so much.  
And then it was gone.  
Just as quickly as it had arrived.  
And it was replaced with a yawning emptiness, like a black pit in the middle of Severus's chest. He let his long legs unfold and fall to the ground, and he pulled his robes away from himself. And he leaned his head back against the wall and let out a long, long breath. Merlin, what had he done to deserve this?  
"Must have been one of those potions I drank during my class," he said, hoarsely, without looking at Regulus. "Probably Longbottom's. Wouldn't be hard to imagine that he somehow turned a Headache potion into a delayed Dolore…" he broke off into a series of deep, rasping coughs.  
"Dolore?" Regulus echoed, sounding obnoxiously comfortable. Severus looked, and saw that he was sitting smugly with his feet up and a mug of transfigured tea in his hand. Severus glared at him, but Regulus pretended not to notice.  
"Dolore Poena. Causes extreme pain in the drinker," Severus replied, injecting as much blatant annoyance as possible into his voice.  
Regulus smirked, and waved a hand towards the book, which was lying on the floor in front of Severus. "I was going to hand that to you, but in all the commotion, I decided to just drop it. The page is 394, the paragraph is seven. Canis Ortum, I was told. The dark lord has given me instructions, to be given to you."  
Severus picked the book up off the floor and quickly turned to the page. He was immediately taken aback by a sinister looking picture of a man, with his face twisted in rage as he transformed into a werewolf. A broken bottle of potion lay on the ground beside him. And beneath the picture, was a paragraph entitled Canis Ortum.  
"You are to make it tonight. Tomorrow, at breakfast, I will distract Lupin while you slip the potion into his drink. Don't let anyone see you, of course."  
Immediately, Severus saw several problems with this plan, rooted in a fundamental lack of understanding of the complex brewing of potions. "No, that will not work. This potion is too complex to brew in one night. And I cannot delay its effects that long, because it is such a powerful potion."  
"Well, how long will it take? And how long can you delay it?" Regulus demanded, impatiently, glaring at Severus from over the couch.  
Severus smirked. A lack of understanding could come in handy here. "At least a day, most likely longer. And, only about two hours."  
It wasn't much of a plan. But it would give him more time to come up with one.  
(For the record, he could have made it in a few hours, and delayed it as long as he liked.)  
But Regulus only nodded, with his eyes narrowed. "Very well, Severus. But the dark lord also sent me to tell you that if you do not accomplish the mission, he has other ways. Many other ways. You are not as precious as you think you are."  
That was only a tactic meant to scare him. No one else could brew the potion. Severus would not be fooled by Regulus's, or the dark lord's, mind games. And so he replied, "You would do well to remember that, also," for good measure, and then leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling, smiling vaguely at nothing.  
He heard Regulus stand, heard him cross the room. And froze when he heard the door open, and Regulus's slimy voice, raised in surprise. "Poppy," he said, forgetting all together to sound like Dumbledore. His voice was too low, and Severus could hear the sneer in his voice.  
She stuttered out something unintelligible, and then there were more footsteps, and the door closed.  
"Severus? Are you there?" she asked.  
Severus was already on his feet. "Wait," he warned, crossing the room in a few strides and putting his hand on her shoulder. "I'll make sure that he's gone."  
He flung the door open and glanced down the hallway, both ways. Regulus was nowhere to be seen.  
Severus closed the door again, and turned to face her. Her cheeks were bright pink, her teeth were still chattering. And her eyes were wide. But Severus ignored all that, and his entire world was focused on what she was about to say.  
"He's here," she whispered. "He's in Hagrid's hut."  
Severus let out a sigh of relief, and wrapped his arms around her.  
()()()  
"Thank you, professor," Draco said, when their duel was finished.  
He looked as if he had just spent hours making himself look perfect, because he had cast a spell to remove all the sweat and fix his hair. But they had spent nearly an hour practicing, and Draco was thoroughly worn out.  
Lupin looked tired as well. He was breathing heavily, and leaning against the wall. He waved his wand, and all the chairs floated back to their placed, settling down into neat rows. "No problem, no problem whatsoever. It's been my dream to be a Defense professor, you know. And even if that will never happen, I'm glad I got to teach you."  
He held out his hand, and Draco shook it.  
And he unlocked the door, and they stepped out into the hallway. Harry was there, waiting for him with Pansy and Hermione. They smiled brightly at Lupin, who smiled back tiredly. "Hello," he said. "I'm sorry I can't stay and chat, but I really must be going," he bowed slightly, and turned to walk away down the hallway.  
They waited until he was gone.  
And then Harry pounced on him, pulling him close and kissing him lightly on the cheek. Hermione gasped loudly, and Harry pulled away abruptly, going rather red. Draco had a hunch that he had forgotten that she was there.  
Pansy whispered something into Hermione's ear, and she went even redder than Harry.  
"Time to go!" Pansy sang, dancing away down the hallway with Hermione in tow. "We'll see you lovebirds later!"  
Draco and Harry smiled at each other, and fell into a kiss.  
()()()  
Death eaters didn't usually plan funerals. Usually, they didn't give a damn about the dead. They would turn their bodies into dirt, or dust, or shattered pieces of glass. Or just leave them there, sometimes, for someone else to find, or to rot.  
But not this time.  
The dark lord was gone. He didn't know. Neither did Bellatrix. But the rest did. Nott, and Greengrass, and Lucius, and the rest. They gathered around a small plot of land at the outskirts of Lucius's long, sweeping lawn, and dug two graves with magic. And there they placed the bodies. Daphne Greengrass, Theodore Nott. Quiet and still.  
It was dark. But a crescent moon hung still and silent overhead, watching. And trees waved in the wind, tall with their shadows painting the grass in long dark strokes.  
Lucius waved his wand, and the graves were filled.  
No one cried.  
No one but a sixteen year old boy, hiding in the basement of Hagrid's hut, with his arms around his knees. Remembering her bright green eyes, and the night they spent together, and the things he should have said.  
Lucius waved his wand again, and grass grew over the graves. There was no sign that anything was buried underneath. But they all knew. They would not forget.  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: the Order, doubt, and poisonous ingredients.  
> PLEASE READ THIS (lol)  
> So, after Wednesday, I will no longer be posting twice a week. I don't have enough prewritten chapters to keep doing that for long.   
> BUT I would like to start writing more one shots! After writing only this story for so long, it's getting a bit boring and I'm losing my incentive to write... so I think that writing a few short stories will really help with that.   
> If you have ideas for something you would like to see me write, please send me a message with your ideas!   
> And please review! Thanks for reading :)


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll post the next chapter next week, because that's when shit goes down and I don't want to make you wait, lol. But after that I might go on a break for a while. I've got a lot of shit going on - school , and like three piano contests, and the fact that I haven't been writing as much so I'm still running out of prewritten chapters because I'm writing less than a chapter a week - so that might be the last chapter for a while.

Twenty-five  
Advice.  
-  
()()()  
The Order met in the small kitchen of the Burrow, gathered around a circular table. Molly was running back and forth, fussing over cups of tea and sandwiches. The rest spoke in low voices, shrouded in flickering candlelight, because even though the Burrow was protected, they couldn’t shake the urge to whisper.  
Finally, Molly sat down. And the little clock ticked quietly, even though all of its arms were fixed in their positions. Arthur and Molly: home. Percy, Bill, and Charlie: work. Ron and Ginny: school. She hadn’t thought of adding a space for war, so Fred and George were fixed permanently on mortal peril, which was slightly unnerving.  
But tonight, no one was looking at the clock. Everyone was looking at the little piece of paper clutched tightly in Arthur’s white knuckled hand. They weren’t looking because they wanted to read it. Everyone had read it already, many times. They were looking because there was nothing else to look at, besides the bags under everyone’s eyes, and the tenseness in their faces, and the slowly dying fire.  
I should put some wood on that, Arthur thought, as his mind strayed from the words scribbled on the paper. It’s like a metaphor for our cause. Dying, he thought, grimly. He didn’t exactly believe it, but he was too stressed to be optimistic.  
Molly put her hands on his shoulders.  
And so they sat quietly around the table, waiting, listening to the ticking clock. Until, finally, there was a knock on the door. A loud, hurried knock. Molly walked quickly to the door, peering through the window until she nodded approvingly and swung it open.  
Everyone sighed in relief.  
There was Severus, wearing black muggle clothes. He had his arm around a tall, dark-skinned boy who was wearing a muggle sweatshirt and dirty, ripped black pants. Strangely, he didn’t look scared. He just looked bored, almost as if he didn’t care what was happening to him.  
Nevertheless, Arthur smiled broadly and closed the door behind them. “Good to see you, Severus,” he said. Severus only nodded, glancing around the burrow with a strange expression on his face, almost as if he was seeing it for the first time. Arthur turned from him to the boy, who was also looking around, but his face was blank. “And you, of course,” Arthur added. “Blaise?”  
He turned, and his eyes swept over Arthur’s face. For some reason, Arthur felt as though he was being shoved into a box, categorized. As if from that one glance, the boy knew everything about him. Or, at least, everything he needed to know.  
“Yes,” Blaise said, with a curt nod. Arthur waited patiently, but he didn’t say anything else.  
“Well, I’m Arthur Weasley,” he said, and then waved his arm at the Order members at the table. “And this is…”  
“Molly Weasley,” Molly said, cheerfully.  
“Moody,” Alastor said gruffly. “But you already know that.”  
“Kingsley Shacklebolt,” Kingsley announced.  
“Tonks,” Tonks said, shaking her bright purple hair out of her eyes.  
“Mundungus Fletcher,” Mundungus muttered.  
They seemed so few, with Albus and Minerva and Remus missing. (Arthur refused to think about Bill or Charlie, who should have been there too.)  
Blaise watched this silently. Arthur looked at him expectantly, but he made no sign that he had even heard. Arthur paused awkwardly, because he wasn’t sure what else he could tell the boy. Could he tell them that they were all part of the Order? Or should he pretend that they were just randomly sitting together in Arthur’s house?  
Severus spared him from having to think. “The boy is exhausted,” he whispered, quietly, but everyone heard. His arm was still firmly around the boy’s shoulders, protecting him. They reminded Arthur fiercely of himself and his children.  
Arthur nodded, too many times. “Of course. Er… what do you think, Molly? Ron’s room?” he stammered, looking away from the fire in Severus’s eyes to where Molly was wiping her hands on her apron. She looked… distressed, and Arthur wanted to go and hug her. But, instead, he waited until she shrugged and nodded, and then he turned back to where Severus and Blaise were waiting. “Ron’s room it is,” he announced, trying to sound cheerful.  
Severus tightened his grip on Blaise’s shoulder. “Lead the way,” he said, stepping aside for Arthur to walk by.  
He led them up the stairs and into the hallway, full of closed doors that made his chest ache. And into Ron’s room. It was unnaturally clean - clothes folded, carpet spotless, everything put away. There were no Chudley Cannons’ posters hanging precariously on the walls (he had taken everything with him to Hogwarts), no knick-knacks lying on the floor, waiting to be broken. Nothing but a plain, white, perfectly made bed, and a dresser full of empty drawers.  
“Do you have anything with you?” Arthur asked Blaise.  
He shook his head.  
“Well… then, perhaps you can wear some of Ron’s old clothes, the ones he’s grown out of. I’m sorry that we can’t buy new ones for you, and we would love to, but, you know, we’ve still got two kids to take care of, not to mention food and keeping up the…”  
“It’s fine,” Blaise interrupted, stepping into the room and turning in a circle to look at everything. (Everything really wasn’t much.) “Thank you,” he added, turning to Arthur with dark, fiery eyes that made him almost want to look away.  
“No problem,” he said, slightly shakily, not sounding very cheerful at all.  
And then, Blaise and Severus stood silently in Ron’s room, without speaking. Just looking at him. Arthur stood there awkwardly for a few seconds until he got the hint. “Oh! Yes. I’ll… I’ll go. Goodbye,” he stammered, and closed the door as he left.  
He could hear the quiet murmur of voices almost as soon as he left, and he wanted desperately to hear what Severus was saying to the first person he had shown open affection to in a long, long time. Ever since Lily, and that awful visit to the hospital.... Arthur had never seen Severus touch another person in a way that wasn’t meant to be threatening.  
So this was a good, good thing.  
Arthur smiled to himself as he walked back down the stairs, and to the small group of Order members still seated around the table, still whispering to each other. He took a seat, and a sandwich from the platter Molly had prepared.  
()()()  
When Pansy and Hermione arrived back at the Room of Requirement, it was cold and dark. So Pansy lit a fire, and Hermione got out a game of Wizard’s chess from the cabinet and began setting out all the pieces. They worked in comfortable silence.  
And then, Pansy spoke. “I can’t believe they’re actually together,” she said, in a voice laced with happiness. “Isn’t it great?” she asked, turning around to face Hermione with a smile on her face.  
Hermione smiled back. “Of course,” she replied, although she wasn’t entirely convinced. It didn’t matter, she would keep her concerns to herself. “I’m glad he’s happy,” she finished, thinking of that rare, genuine smile that she always saw on Harry’s face whenever he was around Draco, and telling herself that it was worth it.  
But what if he finds out?  
And what if…  
Oh, stop. It’s not up to you anyway.  
So Hermione forced herself to smile as they came in, a few minutes later, with their arms around each other, smiling and laughing about something funny. She sat quietly by the fire as Harry kissed him on the cheek and ran his fingers through his hair, and Draco pressed in close to him, and rested his head on his shoulder.  
Pansy laughed, which made Draco glare at her, and that only made her laugh harder, with her arms around her stomach and her head thrown back in the air, red hair flying. “Oh god,” she said, when she had finished laughing and brushing tears out of her eyes. “This is too good.”  
They scowled at her, and she started to laugh again.  
Is it though? Is it good?  
Oh, Hermione. Don’t be such a worrier. You’ll just ruin their happiness.  
She plastered a smile on her face, and forced out a laugh.  
()()()  
The Manor was burning.  
When the death eaters tried to return, all they saw was the fire on the horizon. Smoke billowing up in clouds. And they could feel the heat on their faces, burning. So they stood in their black cloaks, like trees, in Lucius’s garden, and watched it burn.  
And then a blue haze settled over everything, covering the Manor like a blanket. It crackled, louder than the flames, and they could feel the coldness of the magic on their skin. And then the fire went out, with a hiss that left nothing but darkness and emptiness behind.  
And Voldemort walked out the door. His pale, white skin shone brighter than the moon. His eyes were so bright. His hands were raised, and the blue magic flamed around them. When he reached them, he said, “You should thank me for saving your house, Lucius.”  
Lucius bowed his head. “Thank you, my lord.”  
“He is weaker than he thinks,” Voldemort hissed, making a cloud of steam rise into the air. “I barely felt the heat.”  
The other death eaters didn’t tell him that they had.  
Voldemort began to pace, in agitated circles. “Yes, he is truly a weak little boy. A traitor. And all traitors are weak. But, on the day of the tournament, the wheels of my plan will start to churn!” he fixed his amber eyes on the group of death eaters, and raised a bony finger towards them. “You… you don’t even understand, do you? The brilliance of my plan? You have no idea!” he raised his head and laughed, and then turned with a vicious twist of his robes, holding out bony hands, clenching and unclenching his fists. He stared at them from behind crazed yellow eyes. “I only have to kill the boys, and then the world is mine,” he whispered.  
“Then why doesn’t he just do it?” Lucius wondered, silently. “We’ve waited here for so long, without doing anything. And he speaks of this great plan, but never carries it out.”  
“I can feel your doubt,” Voldemort hissed. “But don’t you see? If all I had to do was kill them, then I would have done it five years ago, when I had both of them in my grasp. No, this spell is too powerful to be finished by a simple death. It needs something stronger. An ancient spell, a Dementor’s kiss, a… werewolf bite,” he smiled, and his face looked like a skull in the light of the crescent moon. “If a werewolf were to have ingested a very powerful potion, one that made their bite so much more powerful. And so I hope that you will see… the dark lord always thinks through his plans.”  
He turned on his heel and stalked back towards the castle, with his robes flying in the wind like the wings of a bat.  
()()()  
Poppy squinted at the list of ingredients, again. Very few of the words were familiar, and she had a hard time reading them. Not to mention that most of the ingredients were tucked away in the very back of Severus’s huge potions’ cabinet, and that she had to dig through foul-smelling plants and bottles of sinister liquid before she found them.  
Also, it was late. Almost midnight. And tomorrow was the day before the tournament, and everyone was stressed out, and oh this was just ridiculous. Why on earth did Severus need to make this extremely complicated potion now?  
She just wished that he wasn’t at the Burrow with Blaise, because then he could have found the ingredients himself, instead of making her do it.  
24 Aconite leaves, he had written, in his cursive scrawl. Be careful, they are poisonous. Wear gloves.  
Poppy pulled on a pair that was lying on his desk, and gritted her teeth as she rooted around in a pile of dark green leaves. She took a handful and set them on his desk, hoping that they wouldn’t turn to acid and burn through it, or anything. God, she hated potions.  
2 nightshade flowers.  
Poppy dimly recalled being told in potions class that nightshade were poisonous, and so she hoped that her gloves were thick enough to keep out whatever toxins were hidden in those big, bright flowers.  
15 Death-Cap spores.  
Poppy groaned. Why were all of these ingredients poisonous? For so  
()()()  
“You can expect to stay here for a long time,” Severus murmured, tracing the edge of a dresser drawer with the back of his pale, thin hand. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but it is the safest place.”  
“Don’t worry. I just spent god-knows how long in a dirty, freezing cold dungeon underneath Malfoy Manor. This isn’t inconvenient at all,” Blaise said. His voice was strangely robotic, still void of emotion. Severus wondered how far he would have had to go into his mind until he found the emotions lurking there beneath the surface, and he wondered what they would be.  
But he held himself back, didn’t reach out. Blaise deserved better than that, than to have Snape poking around in his mind without permissions.  
“You know,” Severus began, leaning heavily against the wall and sighing loudly as his tired, aching bones relaxed. He folded his robes around himself and flipped a few strands of greasy hair out of his eyes. “That night that you climbed out the window… I was there. I heard it happen. And I could have stopped you.”  
Blaise watched him from behind masked eyes, and then slowly nodded. “But you couldn’t. We weren’t worth it to sacrifice your position among the death eaters. That makes sense. We’re in a war, after all. I understand.”  
Severus looked at him from behind his crooked nose. Smiled slightly. A smile without any humor, and one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course you do. But… you also know, that there may come a day when it is no longer worth it. When the dark lord will ask me to do something that would be more destructive than the loss of my position could ever be. And then, what should I do, Blaise?”  
Blaise swallowed, and sat down on the bed, across the room. It creaked loudly. “Has that happened?”  
Severus smiled wryly. “Not yet. And I hope it will not,” and he pushed himself away from the wall, and walked forward, so that he stood looking down at Blaise from above. “But I will need you to help me, to make certain that it does not.”  
Blaise looked at the floor. “How?” he asked, quietly.  
Severus sat down beside him on the bed. It creaked beneath his weight, breaking the fragile silence into a million, shrill pieces. Severus cleared his throat. “You do not have to do this, Blaise. You’ve gone through so much, that I would hate to be the one to put you through more. You could be in danger, and…”  
“I’ll do it,” Blaise said.  
Severus grimaced, but didn’t argue. Instead, he sighed, and tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. It was like a plain, blank sheet of parchment, and on it he could imagine figures, and shapes, and shadows, and the body of Blaise’s father, crashing down onto the rug in front of the firelight. And Greengrass, as she was shot down by a killing curse. And the yellow eyes of Voldemort, staring into his soul.  
He didn’t argue, because he knew why Blaise was doing this. He had a drive, now. A never-ending determination to kill Voldemort, for all that he had taken from him. And he would never rest until that was done.  
Severus understood, because he had it too. The little thing that poked into the back of his brain, never ceasing. Because Blaise had his father and Greengrass, and Severus had Lily. And they both wanted revenge.  
Needed it.  
“You may have to kill,” Severus whispered.  
“I’ll do it,” Blaise repeated, turning to look at Severus. His eyes were black and dark and hidden, but his voice was thick with emotion. “I’ll do anything.”  
“Of course you will,” Severus said, with a sigh. “Well, in that case, I retract my earlier statement. You will not be staying here for a long time. You will leave tomorrow, at sundown, with me. And then I will tell you my plan.”  
“Why can’t you tell me now?” Blaise asked.  
“I have to get someone’s advice, first.”  
“Whose?”  
Severus did not reply. It would sound ridiculous, if he told him the truth.  
“Poppy Pomfrey,” Blaise said.  
Severus pulled himself out of his thoughts. “What?” he asked, turning to find Blaise, looking back at him steadily.  
“It’s her. I can see her, it has to be. And besides, you always think about her.”  
Severus stood suddenly, backing away from the bed. “You used Legilimency on me?”  
Blaise stood as well, without looking away from his eyes. He raised his chin. “If I’m going to be part of this plan, I deserve to know who else is in on it. And who you’re asking for advice, when my life in on the line.”  
Severus deflated with a sigh (he was so tired). “Well, if it’s her, then I suppose you would want to back out. I wouldn’t blame you.”  
Blaise looked surprised. “No,” he said. “I would trust hardly anyone more. She saved me in the forest, from Theodore Nott. I trust her.”  
Severus swallowed again. “All right. Then… I will return tomorrow, at sundown. Be ready. And practice your Legilimency. Reach out. I have no doubt that you can complete the task, but it won’t hurt to be sure.”  
Blaise nodded without speaking.  
Severus nodded back, raised his wand, and Disapparated with a pop, leaving Blaise alone in an empty, gray room, with nothing but a chest of drawers and a lonely bed.  
He closed his eyes, lifted his hands, and let the ribbons fall to the floor, slip under the door and fly down the stairs.  
()()()  
“Poppy,” she heard him say.  
She whirled around, without even pausing when she saw how pale he was, and how the frown made its way to his eyes. “What potion are you making?” she demanded, pointing an accusing finger at the ingredients laid out neatly on his desk. “Why are so many of the ingredients dangerous?”  
Severus hesitated. “Poppy… I think I need to rest first.”  
She could see a haze of exhaustion covering his eyes, but she didn’t care. “I’m tired too! I’ve had to stay up past one in the morning because I’ve somehow gotten roped into this plan of yours, and I’ve already traveled into dangerous territory to rescue a sixteen-year old, and now I had to sort poisonous flowers instead of sleeping in my white bed in the obnoxiously white hospital wing, like I should be,” she stopped, breathing heavily.  
Severus stared at her.  
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I just… I need to know what…”  
“I can’t tell you right now, Poppy,” he said. “You should go back to your hospital ward, and sleep, like you want to. Good night.”  
Poppy nodded, without meeting his eyes. She brushed past him, and cast a glance at the ingredients laid out on his desk, but didn’t ask. She walked across the room and reached the door. “Good night, Severus,” she said, quietly. And she walked out into the dimly lit, cold hallway, and closed the door quietly behind herself.  
But she stayed there, breathing softly. And she watched the candlelight flicker, sending spiked shadows dancing across the walls. And she listened to the sound of Severus opening a bottle of something, and the sound of the liquid spilling out of the bottle and down his throat.  
She grimaced.  
(And considered going back in, and telling him to put it down. Because drinking so many alcohol-drenched healing potions was bad for his health.)  
How could she tell? She was a healer. She had trained for this sort of thing. But she didn’t go back in. There would be time to tell him later. Right now, they all desperately needed rest. And Poppy’s body was longing desperately for that warm, white bed in the hospital wing.  
But some part of her wondered, quietly, why he wouldn’t tell her what he was planning.  
()()()  
Finally, the castle slept.  
And everyone in it.  
Almost.  
Regulus paced around Dumbledore’s office, looking much like a shark, circling around its prey. He watched the clock as he circled the room, watching the seconds tick by. And when it struck two, he took a deep drink of a golden potion sitting on Dumbledore’s desk, and ran out the door and down the stairs. He slowed as his muscles aged, groaned as his back became sore and his hair grew down into a twisted beard. His eyesight faded, and he picked up the glasses that were hanging on a string around his neck and slipped them on over his rather large nose.  
“Lumos,” he whispered, in an old, hoarse voice. And he walked down the dark hallways, forcing himself to act confident, as if he was meant to be wandering around the castle at this time of night.  
In a way, he was.  
And out the great hall doors he went, closing them quietly behind him. Running down the hill, groaning about the inconvenience the entire time. Finally, he reached the edge of the grounds, just out of sight of Hagrid’s hut. And there he flicked his wand and Disapparated with a quiet pop.  
()()()  
Above the dark, sweeping lawns, Remus stood at his window, staring at the faint light of the crescent moon, and the place where Dumbledore had just been. He couldn’t sleep. That was a normal thing, but this was different.  
Behind him, a letter sat on his desk. Worn and faded, even though he had only received it a few days ago, before he had come to Hogwarts. He should have thrown it away, or burned it, but he didn’t. And he read it often. Unfolded it with shaking hands, and then cursed himself for doing so. He would throw it back onto the desk in disgust.  
But he would always come back.  
Remus sighed, leaning his forehead against the cold glass, letting it numb his skin. He folded his hands behind his back and rubbed his fingers along the torn skin on the tips of his thumbs, where he had bitten his nails into ragged pieces.  
Behind him was nothing but darkness. But he knew, that had he lit the candle that was waiting on his desk, he would have seen a pile of dirty clothes on the floor, all with rips and holes and little grey pieces of fur. And, if he had dared to look closer, at the seams of his old, worn coat, he would have found little dark stains. Blood.  
Oh, he shouldn’t be here. After all, Albus had said it himself… he wasn’t fit to be the DADA teacher. What business did he have, then, to teach during the tournament? Albus was right - he was a danger to the students.  
Perhaps this was some part of the wolf’s brain, quietly convincing him to want nothing more than to teach, because that would make it easier to find something to bite.  
Remus swallowed, and turned away from the window. He held up his hands to the moonlight streaming in through the window, turning them, watching the way that the shadows hid in the grooves of his knuckles and the lines of his veins. And he swallowed again, feeling the sharpness there, hidden beneath the surface.  
Something was stuck in his throat.  
And there was a loud knock, at the door. Three of them. Remus turned quickly, with a little jolt of surprise in his stomach. Who on earth could that be, at this hour of night?  
And he drew his wand, because the chances of it being Flitwick coming in for a chat and a cup of tea were very slim indeed. The world was at war, after all. And.. (Remus swallowed again.) well, it would be prudent to be ready for anything.  
He lit the candle with a flick of his wand, and breathed deeply as his approached the door, trying not to let his nerves get the best of him.  
But when he opened the door and saw Snape’s face, pale and sallow and frowning deeply, he was torn between relief and something that was quite the opposite. Something within his heart did something strange, and he found that his hands were shaking around the door handle. He lowered his wand slowly, and Severus eyed it with contempt.  
“Oh… Severus. It has been… a long time, hasn’t it?” Remus whispered.  
Snape rolled his eyes, apparently unaware that, aside from his unhealthily pale skin, sickly complexion, and greasy strings of hair, he also brought a multitude of memories that Remus hadn’t dwelt upon in a long, long time. And it made his heart ache for James, and Lily, and… Sirius, in a way that it hadn’t ached in years.  
“Yes, it has. Care to let me in?” he drawled, with a sneer playing around his lips. But Remus couldn’t open the door, because he was too busy staring at the deep frown lines around Snape’s thin lips, and the wrinkles on his forehead, and the way that his eyes were hooded and void of emotion. He was taller than Remus now, so tall that he could actually look down on him from above his hook of a nose. And he raised an arched eyebrow, and cleared his throat.  
“Oh!” Remus said, pulling the door aside with a jerk. “Y-yes, come in,” he stammered. Oh, he needed sleep. He couldn’t function like this.  
Snape raised another eyebrow at the open window, with the moonlight streaming into Remus’s room. And then he glanced at the clothes on the floor, and the little guilty piece of paper sitting on the desk.  
Remus shoved the clothes aside with his foot, and shoved the paper into his pocket. He didn’t close the windows. And then he fiddled with the edge of the frayed suit coat that he hadn’t realized he was still wearing, but he was glad he was. Underneath it, all he had on was an old t-shirt and a pair of jeans, and he suddenly felt very self-conscious in comparison to Snape’s long black robes and crisply, probably magically, ironed black shirt.  
Snape remained in the middle of the room, watching Remus. He cleared his throat. “You do realize that I’m the one who barged into your room at two in the morning unannounced, not the other way around? You have no reason to be so…” he gestured at Remus.  
Remus laughed nervously, and he looked up without meeting Snape’s eyes. Instead, he looked right at the place in between his eyes, so that he wouldn’t have to look at them, because now they were black and emotionless and unnerving. “Er… speaking of that. Why are you here?” he asked, and he waved his wand to transfigure one of his dirty socks into a steaming pot of tea.  
Which was now on the floor. And Remus had to bend down to get it, extremely awkwardly, while Snape’s eyes followed him. Remus laughed again, and set it down on the little table in the center of his room He poured Snape a mug, and held it out to him.  
Snape took it without speaking.  
Remus poured one for himself, and then he waited, wondering if Snape had actually heard him. He was being so infuriatingly quiet, which meant that some things hadn’t changed. He had always been quiet, always thought for a long time before he spoke.  
“I have something I need to bring to your attention,” he began, carefully. “Shall we sit?” he asked, gesturing towards the chairs around the table.  
Remus thought, that if he was the type of person to blush, he would be red as a tomato right then. “Er… of course,” he said, taking a hurried seat in the hard wooden chair and tucking his feet behind the legs.  
Snape placed his mug on the table and leaned forward. “Can I trust you, Remus?” he asked, mildly, as if it was something he asked everyone he met.  
Knowing him, it might have been.  
Remus swallowed (again) and set his tea on the table as well. “Depends on what this is all about,” he said.  
Snape’s face didn’t change, but his voice seemed to darken, to intensify. “It’s about the dark lord’s plan,” he murmured. “It’s about the Burrow. It’s about the Canis Ortum potion.”  
Remus breathed in sharply.  
“I need your… advice,” Snape said. “And your help. As a member of the Order. I am aware that you dislike me, but perhaps you can put your feelings aside for the greater good.”  
Remus shook his head. “I don’t dislike you, Severus.”  
“Then why…” Snape trailed off. And the rest of the sentence hung unspoken in the air, but Remus tried not to hear it.  
There was silence between them, but the eye contact felt louder than anything Remus had ever heard. Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Remus shifted uncomfortably. He felt like Snape was looking right through him.  
“You were saying?” Remus said.  
Snape shook his head slightly, as if he was trying to clear his thoughts. “Oh, yes. This… may take some time, by the way. I… well, I did just barge in unannounced, and I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to…”  
Remus smiled slightly. He wasn’t about to let Snape back out now. “I’ve got all night,” he said, gesturing towards the clock on the wall.  
Snape glanced at it as well. “Well, then I will have to start from the beginning.”  
Remus took a sip of tea.  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: my new favorite chapter, along with a duel in a broom closet, the dada tournament for REAL this time, and something growing.  
> Please review! And, again, if you have any oneshot ideas for me, then PM me!!


	27. 26 - The Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know it's been longer than I promised. Anyway, here's the A/N I made when I originally wrote this chapter:  
> I CHANGED MY MIND - this is my new favorite chapter. But for a very different reason than the last one, lol. This one gets really intense. I hope you like it!!!

Twenty-six.  
The Monster.  
-  
()()()  
There was something growing.  
Something beautiful.  
Anastasia could feel it. She tasted it in her scrambled eggs. She heard it moving in everyone’s voices, as they swelled like waves. Something hidden underneath it all, something dark and beautiful and growing.  
And it smelled like treacle tart.  
So Anastasia took a deep breath, leaning her head back and looking up at the grey sky above, where the first few rays of sunlight were just beginning to shine through the clouds. And she ignored the way that Ginny was watching her, with confusion showing so plainly on her face.  
“She wears her heart on her sleeve,” he hissed. “But you… you can keep a secret. Good for you.”  
Anastasia smiled.  
Oh, it felt good to have someone so close, whispering sweet things into her ear. The fact that she thought that was sickening, but she forced herself to ignore it, to enjoy this time before someone would inevitably find out how crazy and messed up she was, and kick him out of her head.  
“That won’t happen. I won’t leave.”  
Sure.  
Anastasia closed her eyes, letting the light of the magical sun shine onto her eyelids. She was still smiling.  
()()()  
Remus didn’t sleep that night.  
When Severus left, Remus sat down heavily on his couch, leaned his head back, and stared at the ceiling. And he stayed like that for a long, long time. The clock ticked behind him, and Remus covered his ears to block out the sound.  
And then he ran to the window, and just stared at the sun. He stared at it until his eyes hurt, and then he stared at the trees beneath it, sparkling with gold, and the grounds, which shone with it. And he held up his hands, and let the sunlight shine onto them. He turned them over, watching the way that the shadows hid in the grooves of his knuckles and the lines of his veins. And he swallowed again, feeling the sharpness there, hidden beneath the surface.  
Oh god.  
“Canis Ortum. You know what that means?”  
“Of course. But what does that…”  
“I’m supposed to pour some into your tea tomorrow. To make you kill Longbottom.”  
Remus sighed, and his forehead hit the glass. This time, it was warm because of the sunlight, and it felt good. He groaned, because he didn’t want to feel good. He wanted to feel cold and numb and…  
He turned, and leaned the back of his head against the glass. His hair fell into his eyes, but he ignored it. And he sighed, because now he could see the clothes on the floor, with their rips and holes and bloodstains. And he walked to them, and waved his wand so that they flew into his suitcase.  
He would leave. Immediately. He had to.  
He picked up his suitcase by the handle and walked awkwardly to the door. He flicked his wand and it swung open. And he walked down the hallway, down a few staircases, and into the great hall, where the students were having breakfast.  
He stayed in the back, so that they wouldn’t see him. And the air was filled with chatter and laughter and silly, childish screams. It made Remus smile sadly, because he would have liked nothing more than to be a teacher, and to eat here with them, every day of his life.  
He could feel Severus’s eyes on him.  
“Perhaps… perhaps if you ask Regulus, he’ll just let you leave. After all, you’re a teacher. You can leave whenever you want.”  
“I can’t just… fly out the window on a broomstick?”  
“Too suspicious. He’ll assume that you found out that he was using Polyjuice. Voldemort will probably send death eaters to kill you.”  
“But…”  
“At least try leaving normally. If it doesn’t work, then we can try something else.”  
“All right. I’ll try.”  
So Remus took a deep breath, and left the safety of the shadows. He walked between the long house tables with his chin held high, and met Regulus’s eyes defiantly. And he opened his mouth to speak.  
Regulus’s eyes met his, cold and calculated from within Dumbledore’s face.  
And before he could speak Regulus was standing. “Attention, students!” he yelled.  
Remus stopped. He turned and found himself standing awkwardly beneath the High Table, in full view of every single student. He caught Draco’s eyes on him, and he forced himself to smile cheerfully. Draco smiled back.  
“I, and the other professors, have decided to move the tournament to this morning! In just two short hours, you will all assemble in the Transfiguration classroom! Good luck to all!” he cried, raising his arms as the great hall erupted in applause. And he swept past Remus without even glancing at him. He walked down the length of the great hall, took a sharp left turn, and went out of sight.  
After that, it really wasn’t so hard to believe that Snape was telling the truth, and that this really was Regulus Black.  
Remus followed after, walking at a natural pace as if everything was normal. But the second that he turned the corner, he broke into a run. When he reached the end of the hallway he looked each way frantically, breathing heavily. No one was there.  
Left. Left was the way to Dumbledore’s office. He would go that way.  
Remus went to turn left, but when he did, a hand shot out of the darkness and grabbed onto his arm. Remus gasped and tried to pull away, but the fingers tightened painfully around his wrist, and pulled him into the darkness of one of Filch’s broom closets.  
The door slammed, and then the room exploded with wandlight. Remus blinked, and almost jumped when he saw Regulus standing there, wearing Dumbledore’s old spectacles and his robes, and glaring with his eyes. And then his hands moved to Remus’s shoulders and he pushed him up against the wall with a thud.  
Remus grunted. “What the hell are you…”  
“Who told you?” Regulus demanded. “Who TOLD you?”  
“I don’t…”  
“I KNOW someone told you!”  
“Get the hell away from…”  
“TELL ME! Or else,” his voice dropped to a whisper, and he pressed his wand to Remus’s neck.  
Well, that escalated quickly.  
“Tell me who knows,” Regulus said, pressing Remus further into the wall, making the tip of the wand dig painfully into his throat. “Now. Was it that worthless little girl? Was it one of your precious Order? Maybe even my bloody brother?” his voice kept climbing, higher and higher, as he became more hysterical.  
Remus slipped his fingers into his pocket, and wrapped them around his wand.  
“Snape? Was it Snape? Or maybe McGonagall found out? WHO!” he yelled, and his face was so close to Remus’s that he actually felt a few drops of spit land on his nose.  
“No one,” Remus managed to say, despite the way that the wand was digging into his neck. “You’re so bloody obvious, even a child could have figured it out. With the way you prance around as if you’re a fucking ballet dancer,” his mouth twisted into a painful smile when he saw Regulus scowl. “And, you know, the fact that you’ve now got me at wandpoint in a broom closet. That was a big hint.”  
Regulus growled, low in his throat, and then he stepped away. Remus took a moment to breathe in a sigh of relief, and then his wand was pointed at Regulus’s eyes. “Page twenty-two of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Protection. Never forget to take your enemy’s wand when you have the chance.”  
“CRUCIO!”  
“CONFRINGO!”  
The spells hit each other and exploded in a shower of red and gold. The two men were thrown back against the walls of the broom closet, and Remus hit his head painfully against a broomstick. But in another instant their wands were once again pointed at each other with steady hands, and neither of them looked to be about to back down.  
“We can’t continue like this. Perhaps a truce is in order…”  
“AVADA KED…”  
“EXPULSO!”  
A jet of blue light, and Regulus half-staggered, half-fell back into the pile of broomsticks on the floor. And instantly, Remus’s wand was pointed at his head, and he was shouting, “AVADA…”  
Regulus screamed. “AVADA…”  
“KEDAVRA!”  
And the two streams of green light met in the air and set the entire closet alight with sparkling, painful light, like flames. Remus fell to the floor with a sigh, and they lay there quietly, barely breathing.  
“Sileo,” Remus murmured. And he began to breathe again.  
He waited for a few moments before he began to stand. He leaned against the wall heavily, using a broom to support himself as if it were a cane. He grunted when little stabs of pain hit him in his chest, where his heart was trying its best to beat normally, but aside from that… he was okay.  
Regulus lay on the floor. His wand had fallen a few feet away from his outstretched hand. He was glaring daggers at Remus, but he couldn’t do a thing to protect himself. Remus just leaned against the wall and looked at him, wondering what on earth he was going to do.  
Then he bent down and picked up Regulus’s wand, and put it into his pocket. Because page twenty-two of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Protection said to never forget to take your enemy’s wand when you have the chance.  
Then Remus held out his hand. Regulus just stared at it for a few moments, eyes narrowed. And then Regulus took his hand. “Thank you,” he whispered.  
And he pulled.  
Remus fell forward with a sickening lurch. He collapsed next to Regulus, onto a pile of broomsticks. And everything hurt, and everything ached, and his chest exploded with a sharp pain, like the pain from claws, digging into his skin. And Regulus pried the wand out of his hand, and pulled the other one out of his pocket, and started to laugh.  
“Obliviate,” he said, and everything went black.  
()()()  
“Two hours. We have two hours to make something… presentable. Something he’ll believe. And that’s it. Are you going to help me, or not?”  
Poppy groaned. “But you still haven’t told me why we’re…”  
“To save my position with the dark lord! Because I still have no idea what I’m going to do about all this, but making something is certainly better than sitting around moping about it and…” Severus stopped abruptly, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had a massive headache, even after drinking a whole bottle of perfectly brewed potion.  
“Is your position really worth all this?” Poppy asked, even as she began to pull the petals off of a few poisonous flowers.  
Severus sighed. “I don’t know, Poppy. But perhaps soon I will know, and then I might be damn glad that I’ve made this potion. At least I’ll have something to show the dark lord, to prove that I tried to play my part in his ridiculous plan.”  
Poppy sighed.  
And then they brewed in silence.  
()()()  
Draco frowned at the place where Lupin had disappeared around the corner.  
Harry and Pansy were joking about something that they found extremely funny, and Hermione was poking at her scrambled eggs with her fork. At the end of the table, the Weasley brat was saying something to Plum, but she was clearly ignoring her. And Dean was staring at his food without eating.  
No one was paying any attention to him.  
So Draco muttered, “S’cuse me,” and then he stood up and walked quickly to the end of the great hall, and then down the hallway. When he reached the end, he took a sharp left. He wasn’t sure why, but it just felt right.  
And then, Lupin was there. Standing in the middle of the hallway and looking quite tired, or maybe just confused. But Draco felt an irrational sense of relief wash over him. “Professor!” he cried, running to catch up with him. Lupin wasn’t strictly a professor, but Draco knew that he had always wanted to be a teacher, and that he would probably appreciate it. “Er… since the tournament’s been moved to today, do you think we could practice quickly before it happens?”  
Lupin turned to him with a cheerful smile. “Of course we can. And you are?” he asked, reaching out a hand, waiting for Draco to take it.  
All Draco could do was stare. And then he swallowed back an uncomfortable pressure in his throat. “Erm… professor, we… didn’t we…?” he trailed off. “I’m Draco Malfoy,” he muttered, feeling something heating up behind his eyes.  
Lupin just kept smiling. “Nice to meet you. And I’m not exactly a professor, by the way. Just Remus Lupin,” he shrugged. “Now. Where would you like to practice?”  
Draco swallowed. “I… actually, I don’t feel like it anymore. My stomach hurts.”  
Lupin nodded sympathetically. “I can relate. For some reason, my chest aches terribly. Must have slept the wrong way,” he shrugged. “Well, good luck in the tournament, Draco.”  
Draco didn’t have the heart to do anything but nod.  
()()()  
Everything smelled like delicious, golden syrup.  
Anastasia was slowly getting lost in it.  
She wanted to follow the smell. Follow it someplace warm. Because here, in the great hall, everything was cold. And Ginny’s voice was so shrill in her ear, that it made her head hurt. In fact, everyone’s voices sounded louder. Perhaps she should get out. Perhaps she should leave.  
“Wait. Wait until breakfast ends. Then go.”  
Okay. She would wait.  
She listened patiently to Ginny’s shrill, painful voice, until the clock chimed and the entire great hall burst into noise as people stood and gathered their things and started to leave. Anastasia was instantly up from her chair and joining the river of people streaming out of the great hall.  
But while everyone else went straight down the hallway, she went left.  
Ginny cast an exasperated glance back at her, and then gave up and went with everyone else.  
“Good. She won’t be here to annoy you. She’s so loud, isn’t she?”  
Anastasia nodded in agreement.  
And the delicious smell led her down the hallway. Slowly at first, but then she began to run. Darting around corners and down corridors, until she reached the dark hallway that led down to the dungeons.  
There.  
That was where it was growing. That was where it would become a living, breathing thing. That was where she needed to go.  
She ran down the stairs. And instantly, she could feel the warmth. Creeping along her skin, making the world spin as if she was in a dream. The floor tipped, and she hit the wall with a thud, but she kept on running and running and running.  
Everything was blurry. Everything was black. Everything spun around and around. It all blended together into a mush, but somehow she still knew which way to go. The world was kind of pretty this way.  
“You like it?”  
Yes.  
“Good. Then I’ll keep it like this. Just for you.”  
Anastasia smiled. And then she was at the entrance to the potions classroom, and peering into the window, trying desperately to get a glance at the beautiful, growing thing that smelled of treacle tart.  
“Hide.”  
She darted behind the corner, just in time. Because then, Snape and Pomfrey walked out of the classroom. They were talking about something, but she didn’t hear because all she could hear was the dim drone of the thing as it grew. Golden light seeped out of the classroom door. It was syrup.  
And the world spun in circles.  
When they were gone, Anastasia crept into the classroom. Across the floor. And she gasped when she saw it. A cauldron full of something golden and sparkling and warm. Tiny, delicious pieces of treacle tart. Finally.  
She grabbed one of the bottles on Snape’s desk, and dipped it into the cauldron. Little pieces fell down into the bottle, and she had filled it at least halfway when his voice came back. “They’re coming!” he warned her.  
She tucked the bottle under her arm and ran across the classroom, closing the door quietly behind her when she left. And then she went back down the twisting, spinning hallways where all the colors blended together.  
“Wait. Don’t go back to the tower yet. First… yes, I think it should work perfectly if you do it now. Oh, Anastasia, wouldn’t you like to give someone a very wonderful gift?”  
Anastasia nodded.  
“Well. What about Remus Lupin? He’s worked so hard for all of you… he even came all the way from the little cardboard box he was living in to teach you brats. Why not give him some delicious treacle tart?”  
Anastasia frowned, because she would have liked to give it to Harry. But then there was a crackle of magic, twisting around her mind, and she thought that giving it to Lupin would be a wonderful idea.  
()()()  
The ribbon flew down the stairs and into the room where they were all seated around the table, chewing on sandwiches. Blaise could see them, but he couldn’t hear them. He forced a bit more magic into the ribbon, and slowly, their voices grew.  
“...Was here, then he would know what to do. But this is all so overwhelming…” that was the woman who had made the sandwiches.  
“Are you a member of the Order or not, Molly?” a grizzled old man with an eye rolling crazily in his head interrupted, gruffly. He took an angry sip of water.  
Order?  
A pause.  
“Well, then you should be able to handle this! We all should! We took an oath. Not to blindly follow after Dumbledore, but to do our very best in the fight against you-know-who, and I intend to stick to my word,” Moody exclaimed, setting down his water with a thud.  
“Yes, but…”  
“Anyway, the child!” the woman with bright purple hair interrupted. “Moody, please. She’s hysterical. We need to consider the child first! He’s living in Arthur’s house, after all. It’s a bit of a priority,” Blaise dimly remembered that she had introduced herself as Tonks.  
“No! The child doesn’t matter,” that was… Kingsley Snorckack? Blaise couldn’t exactly remember his name. “Defeating you-know-who is of greater importance!”  
“No shit,” Tonks muttered dryly. “But, since we can’t really do anything about that at the moment, why don’t we worry about things that we can do something about?”  
Everyone seemed distressed by this statement, and Molly glared openly at Tonks. Arthur put a hand on her shoulder to calm her down. And then he leaned forward. “Kingsley is right. The boy doesn’t exactly matter. Perhaps we should owl Severus, and tell him to come back and discuss this with us. He has all the information, and we are being left in the dark.”  
Because you’re a bunch of idiots, Blaise thought. You’ll just ruin everything.  
And then there was a knock on the door. The whole room went silent, instantly, aside from the sound of three glasses being set down on the table. And then Arthur glanced around at the rest of the Order, obviously hoping that someone else would stand up and go open the door. No one moved. So he stood and walked slowly to the door, reaching out his hand slowly, slowly turning the handle and opening it.  
There was Severus.  
And Blaise was so surprised that the ribbons broke in half, and then he was back in his room, disoriented and annoyed. But he waited patiently, sitting on the floor, back against the wall, for Severus to come in and tell him why he had returned so soon.  
He was not disappointed.  
The door opened, and Severus walked in. He looked so out of place, with his black robes and black, greasy hair, in the grey room with the grey walls and bed. But he didn’t even glance at it - immediately, his eyes found Blaise, and he said, “We’re leaving. Now. I’ll tell you everything on the way. Bring a coat,” and he disappeared, closing the door loudly behind him.  
Blaise didn’t have a coat. He didn’t have anything but the t-shirt and jeans that he had found in the back of Ron’s drawer, behind the ugly dress robes and brightly colored clothes that did not match his mood. And the jeans had holes in them.  
But he put on the Muggle sweatshirt that Severus had given him, and ran out of the room, taking the stairs two at a time. When he got downstairs, Severus was standing by the table, and all of the “Order” members were glaring at him. Blaise ducked back into the stairwell, blending into the darkness, breathing quietly so that he could hear.  
“We can’t just sit here uselessly, Severus!” Molly hissed, obviously trying to be quiet so that Blaise wouldn’t hear from upstairs. “We could actually play a part in this war if you would just tell us about that magnificent plan of yours…”  
“She’s right!” Arthur cried. Several others murmured their agreement.  
“The plan does not require your expertise, Molly,” Severus said. Somehow, even though he was so quiet, the instant he spoke, everyone else stopped talking and listened. “The plan does not require any of you. I have everything under control.”  
“No, you don’t!” Arthur said, as soon as Severus was finished. “You’re working alone! You can’t do anything by yourself, Severus. Surely you understand that.”  
Severus sighed. “But I’m not working alone, Weasley. I have plenty of help from within Hogwarts. I don’t need anyone else, much less anyone outside of the castle.”  
“Who?” Molly demanded. “Who the hell is helping you? No one knows that you’re a spy, no one knows that you…”  
“Remus Lupin,” Severus interrupted. “A member of your bloody Order. We both know exactly what to do, and we both have everything under control. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I must be going.”  
He stepped away from the table and immediately met Blaise’s eyes, jerking his head towards the doorway.  
“What? No! Remus is not at Hogwarts, everyone knows that!”  
“Severus, come back here this instant!”  
Blaise stepped out of the darkness of the stairwell, and Severus opened the door with a flick of his wand. They stepped outside into the frozen winter air, and Severus slammed the door behind him so hard that the entire house shook.  
()()()  
Severus grabbed Blaise’s hand, and they Disapparated with a pop.  
They landed just outside of Hogwarts, next to one of the huge brick walls. Severus glanced up, and saw a window over head. That would be the window to the Transfiguration classroom. They were in the right place.  
He pushed Blaise down against the wall, and then crouched down to meet his eyes. “Stay here,” he said. “You won’t move. In two hours… no, less than that now, I’ll need you to do something for me,” he swallowed. He still didn’t want to make Blaise do this. He had been through so much…  
“Tell me,” Blaise said, eyes dark and insistent. “I can handle it.”  
Severus nodded. He had already brought Blaise here, it was too late to turn back now. “Hogwarts is having a DADA tournament. Ridiculous, I know. And Regulus is going to have it happen in the Transfiguration classroom, which is directly above you.”  
Oh, Blaise might not know about Regulus.  
Severus smiled grimly. “He’s been using Polyjuice to pretend to be Albus Dumbledore.” Blaise didn’t even blink, so Severus went on. “At some point, during the tournament, when there are hexes flying around and boggarts jumping out of wardrobes, he’ll come in to see how things are going. You have to kill him.”  
Blaise still didn’t blink. It was unnerving, that he was so all right with doing this. Severus swallowed, but his mouth was still dry. “And that will make it easy to blame on a badly aimed spell. No one will know the truth.”  
Blaise nodded. “Okay,” he said.  
Severus was surprised. “Really? You’re okay with this? And you’re not going to ask any questions? You’re not wondering…”  
Blaise interrupted. “I already knew about Regulus. I heard Voldemort say it, back in Malfoy’s study. And I understand that you can’t kill him, because it would compromise your position among Voldemort’s followers. And if anyone else did it, it could still be too dangerous. But no one even knows that I’m here. I’m the perfect person for your plan.”  
Severus wasn’t going to pretend that he didn’t desperately need Blaise to do this, but it still hurt to nod and stand and start to walk away. “You’ll have to stay outside for a few hours. If you’re cold, I’m sure you can figure out how to do a healing spell without your wand. And… I won’t be able to talk to you until it’s over. If you have anything you need to say, say it now.”  
Blaise shook his head.  
So Severus nodded again, and walked away through the snow. It crunched under his feet, and little pieces started to fall from the sky and land in his hair. It was cold, and Severus felt uncomfortable knowing that Blaise would be outside in the snow for so long, even though he knew that he could use magic to keep himself warm.  
But he kept walking anyway, and didn’t look back.  
()()()  
Draco and Harry walked together into the Transfiguration classroom. It had been enlarged, so that now it was almost the size of the Quidditch pitch, and there was more than enough room for every Hogwarts student, and then some.  
And then Draco muttered, “See you,” and went to join Dean. Harry frowned. Draco hadn’t been very talkative, ever since breakfast. He wondered if something had happened, or if it was just nerves because of the tournament, and having to be around Dean.  
He went to stand by Ginny and Longbottom, and they waited together for the tournament to start. And at the end of the classroom, in front of a long table of professors, Dumbledore stood and watched over his students with a smile on his face.  
“The tournament will begin…” he shouted, raising his hands while the entire room waited with bated breath. “NOW!” he bellowed, and the room exploded with noise.  
()()()  
Severus sat next to Remus. Neither of them looked at each other, because that was what they had agreed upon. It was all part of the plan. But some small part of Severus wanted to turn to Remus and say something, something like, “Are you ready?” And see Remus nod, and smile with that cheerful look in his eyes. Just to make Severus feel slightly better.  
In his pocket, he had a small vial of the Canis Ortum potion. He would pour it into Remus’s goblet, where Regulus could see. And then Remus wouldn’t drink it. Regulus couldn’t argue with that.  
And if all else failed, the potion was useless. Severus had added crushed up bezoar to this vial, just in case. And then, he would still have the cauldron of working potion to show. To show that he had tried everything he could.  
It was an awful plan, but they had only had two hours to come up with it. In the end, they couldn’t risk letting Remus transform. But they would try their best to salvage Severus’s position.  
And besides, before the tournament was over, Regulus would be dead.  
Hopefully.  
There was so much riding on this that Severus couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. Next to him, Remus was doing an admirable job of seeming perfectly cheerful and at ease, and almost as if he was actually paying attention to the tournament. First years attempting to stun each other, people lining up to defeat Boggarts, seventh years dueling… it was all loud and rather boring, but Remus was watching with interest.  
And then Regulus walked over to their table. “Remus!” he cried. “Why don’t you come with me? I have something I need to discuss with you.”  
At first, Severus was confused. Then he realized that Regulus was trying to “lure” Remus away so that Severus could pour the potion into his goblet. Oh. So this would be even easier than he had anticipated, because Regulus might not even be watching. Easy.  
Oh god.  
Severus looked at the rest of the table. No one was paying any attention. So he quickly grabbed Remus’s goblet and poured in the entire bottle of Canis Ortum potion. It smelled bitter, and it hissed, sending a little plume of red smoke into the air. And then it stilled, and became the same color as the water that Remus had been drinking. Perfectly disguised. It was a genius invention, actually.  
Severus rolled his eyes at his own thoughts, and set the goblet back down on the table. A few feet away, Regulus was deep in conversation with Remus. He glanced towards Severus, who nodded, and then he smiled broadly, “Well, that definitely clears things up, Remus! Thank you!” he exclaimed, and Severus wondered mildly what sort of idiotic question he had asked Remus.  
Remus nodded enthusiastically, and walked back to the table, taking his seat.  
And he lifted the goblet, and he took a sip.  
Luckily, Regulus wasn’t watching. He was too busy watching Potter and Longbottom duel. But Severus still felt a sudden stab of panic in his stomach, and he watched Regulus warily as he took the goblet from Remus’s hand and hissed, “What the hell are you doing? Don’t you remember the plan?”  
Remus’s eyes went cold. He snatched the goblet back from Severus’s hand. “I most certainly do not. And I don’t know what kind of games you’re trying to play, but I’ll have no part in them. A man your age should be able to put the past behind you.”  
And he stood and walked away, before Severus could get a chance to reply.  
()()()  
“Come on, Stasia. Just throw a hex at me already,” Pansy complained, from across the room.  
But how could Stasia throw a hex when everything was spinning? And the colors rose up in circles… it was so pretty. Like a painting. She stared at the walls, the ceiling, the floor, and ignored Pansy’s pleading.  
All around her, people were shooting bright colors out of their wands, and saying loud, blue things, and laughing with bright bubbles of yellow. It was beautiful. And in her pocket, the bottle of potion felt warm and sweet. She touched it with her finger, and she could feel the heat from underneath the glass.  
“Now! The time is now! Go, give it to him!”  
Excitement flared in Stasia’s chest. And she turned away from Pansy (who groaned loudly) and scanned the room until she saw him, standing by the boggart’s wardrobe and watching as students took turns opening it, screaming, and then defeating it. She was so happy that she practically skipped as she walked over to where he was, with the beautiful growing thing in her pocket, smelling like treacle tart.  
Harry, Ginny, and Longbottom were at the back of the line. Stasia smiled at them, because she felt like smiling at everything. Only Ginny smiled back, but Stasia didn’t mind.  
And she walked past them to where Lupin stood, and she tapped him on the shoulder.  
He looked down, and there was a cheerful smile on his face. “Yes?” he asked, turning away from the boggart to look at her. His eyes were so blue, and they spiraled and twisted like a ribbon. Anastasia grinned, and pushed her glasses higher up her nose.  
She pulled the bottle out of her pocket. But she paused a moment to look at it, to see the little pieces of beautifully golden treacle tart all piled together, smelling like sweet golden syrup. And then, she handed it to him. “Want some?” she asked, smiling. “It tastes like treacle tart.”  
He smiled, and nodded, and put the bottle to his lips.  
()()()  
And from across the room, Severus didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. And he was out of his chair in a second, and trying to scream over the noise of the tournament. “GET OUT!” he yelled. “GET OUT!”  
But no one heard him.  
()()()  
And from across the room, Draco pretended to look at Dean, but he was actually watching as Remus lifted to bottle to his lips, and took a sip, and then his body contorted horribly. He was forced into a crouch, his back grew with bulging muscle, his coat ripped, exposing grey fur. His fingers turned into claws, his eyes became yellow, his teeth became fangs.  
Draco was frozen in place, just staring, and listening to the sound of his own heart beating faster and faster and faster until it went out of control.  
()()()  
And from below, near the castle wall, Blaise heard the screaming.  
“Fuck,” he whispered, because he had been reaching out for so long, but no matter what he tried, he couldn’t touch Regulus. Nothing worked. And now it was too late. The plan had failed. Severus was wrong, and Potter and Longbottom would die, and Voldemort would win.  
()()()  
Harry grabbed Ginny’s hand and pulled her back towards the window, away from the horrible monster in the middle of the room. And everyone else started to scream, and run in all directions, and wave around wands.  
But Harry watched as the werewolf turned in slow, calculated circles, looking at each student with its glowing yellow eyes and then moving on. He narrowed his eyes, because (regardless of how Lupin had managed to turn into a werewolf in the first place) this wasn’t how werewolves were supposed to look. They were supposed to attack the first living thing they saw, not caring who it was. But it was almost as if it was looking for a specific person.  
And, agonizingly slowly, the werewolf turned to face Longbottom. It bared its fangs, and started to prowl forward, growling. Everyone screamed, and Longbottom turned white, and Harry felt nothing but the beating of blood in his ears and his own voice, when he yelled at the top of his lungs, “Hey! Don’t eat him, eat ME!”  
And he let go of Ginny’s hand, and he stepped forward.  
The wolf turned, considering him for a moment. And it was all Harry could do not to scream and run from the bared fangs, and the mouth dripping saliva, and the bright yellow eyes of that terrible, unnatural monster as it stalked forwards, towards him.  
He pulled his wand out of his pocket, and began to raise it, with shaking hands.  
But the wolf leapt. And hit him. And they fell backwards together, with the wolf’s claws digging painfully into his shoulders, and blood was everywhere, and Harry couldn’t see because his eyes were shut tight because he knew that he was going to die.  
The window shattered.  
And they fell through it, into open air.  
()()()  
Blaise watched them fall.  
He didn’t know where the hell the wolf had come from, and he didn’t care. A student was falling, falling to his death. Blaise ignored the panic and the urge to run that were screaming at him, and he stayed where he was, raising his hands and yelling, “Aresto Momentum!”  
And the boy’s body was suspended in midair, floating next to the great wall of Hogwarts. His eyes were wide open, his mouth was open in a scream, but no sound came out.  
They both watched as the wolf plummeted down to the ground, and hit it with a sickening crunch.  
Everything was quiet. Blaise stepped away, closing his eyes, listening to his own too-fast breathing and the beating of his heart. And then he guided the boy’s body gently back to the ground, where he lay there silently beside the broken body of the wolf.  
Blaise didn’t want to look at it, but he couldn’t help himself. Its body was contorted, its legs were going in all the wrong directions. Its mouth was open in a silent snarl, and its eyes were wide and yellow and empty.  
Slowly, the fur melted away, the back arched and then shrunk back to human size. Claws became fingers, ears disappeared, eyes became normal and human again. It was a man, a man that Blaise didn’t recognize. Lying on the ground in a ripped coat, looking absurdly pitiful and small. Blaise turned his eyes away.  
And saw that beside him, on the ground, was a wrinkled sheet of paper, worn from being folded and unfolded again and again and again. Blaise bent down and shoved it into his pocket.  
Blaise looked down, and met the boy’s eyes. “Who are you?” the boy asked. Blaise could only stare at him, and shrug.  
“HE’S A MURDERER!” someone shouted. Blaise looked up, and saw Regulus looking down at him from the shattered glass window. And beside him was Severus, and behind him were hundreds of wide-eyed, crying, talking, staring Hogwarts students. “HE DID THIS!” Regulus shouted, with a smile playing over his lips, and blue eyes twinkling from behind Dumbledore’s half-moon spectacles. And he raised his wand, pointing it at Blaise. No one held him back.  
If he’s going to call me a murderer, he might as well have a good reason, Blaise thought, and it almost made him smile.  
He raised his hands and screamed so loudly that it should have ripped his throat into shreds. “AVADA KEDAVRA!”  
A flash of green light.  
And power, hurtling through Blaise’s veins. Power that made him want to laugh like a madman.  
He watched it hit Regulus, watched his scream, saw his body glow with it. And watched him fall forwards, and topple out of the broken window to join the broken body of the werewolf. He landed with an empty thud.  
Severus met his eyes for a moment, and then he stepped away into the darkness.  
He was replaced immediately by a crowd of Hogwarts students. And they threw hexes and curses and spells at him, but Blaise only laughed and raised his hands and they bounced right off into the grass, where they hissed and spit and fizzled out. And he accidentally met the accusing eyes of the student he had saved, and then he too was lifting his wand and screaming curses. Blaise flicked them all aside easily.  
And he turned and started to run. Faster than was humanly possible, with the magic spurring him on like it always did. He ran and ran and ran, past Hagrid’s hut, to the edge of the forbidden forest. And there he stopped, hardly even hearing the shouting and the screaming that were carried along with the wind. He took the letter out of his pocket and unfolded it.  
Remus,  
Find me at Number 12, Grimmauld Place. I can explain, I swear. And… I miss you.  
Snuffles.  
(P.S. You should probably destroy this letter.)  
Blaise did. His fingers set the paper alight, let the flames dance over his hands. And then he threw it into the air and watched it explode, before letting out a laugh. Somewhere to go. Somewhere to be. He didn’t care where it was.  
He lifted his hands over his head, letting the magic crackle around him like fire as he Apparated away.  
()()()

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! I would especially appreciate some feedback on this chapter.


	28. 27 - Number 12

Twenty-seven.  
Number 12.  
-  
()()()  
Remus was floating. And oh, did it feel good to have that weight finally lifted - the weight of his tired body, of his aching muscles. The weight of his mind. Now, finally, he could sleep, and just float. Forever.  
Peaceful, at first. At first, he smiled and drifted slowly, with his hands in the pockets of his coat and his ears buzzing softly, pleasantly, even. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet, and he felt no need to. Whatever was out there couldn’t possibly compare to the warmth and quiet of his dreams. He didn’t want to wake up. He didn’t ever want to touch the ground again.  
But then, he began to fall. The darkness tipped drunkenly, causing a horrible sensation of butterflies in his stomach, and making his eyes snap open.  
He was not alone, after all. And he should have opened his eyes long ago. For, floating ahead of him in the dark, was the gaping mouth of a huge red monster, eyes flashing, teeth white as bone. And the world fell around him, and Remus could only stare as he fell with it, and the monster disappeared above him into the blackness.  
“Oh, just give up, Lupin. You don’t even remember why you’re here.”  
Remus clapped his hands to his head, and his mouth opened in a silent shout of surprise. That just couldn’t be! Someone was in his head!  
Whoever it was, they started to laugh. Loud and deep and awful, rippling like waves, flowing directly into Remus’s skull and making his head pound sickeningly. And then Remus started to spin, around and around, his head whipping through the darkness and his hands grabbing desperately for things that weren’t there. He was falling and spinning and he was going to be sick.  
This didn’t feel good anymore.  
“Enough games!”  
“But I’m not… doing anything,” Remus managed to choke out, even though his stomach was churning and he was going to throw up.  
“Not you, idiot. I’m speaking to Regulus. I’m just having fun with you.”  
What the hell was going on?  
Remus dropped his head into his hands and focused on not being sick. He closed his eyes, and tried not to focus on the horrible, sickening sensation of his body spinning through space.  
“Of course you will. I never doubted that for a moment. Now, tell me everything you did. Everything you planned. Don’t lie - it’s practically impossible.”  
Remus’s head pounded.  
“Don’t pretend. If you had followed my plan, you wouldn’t be here right now. But you were always too self-seeking for that. And don’t worry, I won’t punish you. You’re already dead.”  
“Dead?” Remus said loudly, feeling quite uneasy.  
The darkness was interrupted by a bright red light that reminded Remus of the monster he had seen earlier. But this time, it morphed into the hazy figure of a man, wearing a dark cloak. That was when Remus decided that he must simply be having a bad dream, and that shortly, he would wake up.  
“The only reason you think that is because you’ve forgotten what happened. It was only a few minutes ago, but your mind was already so weak… I suppose you’ve just gone insane.”  
“What?” Remus asked, feeling even more uneasy.  
Whoever it was, they laughed again.  
“Oh, be quiet, Regulus, and let me talk to him. You’re no help anyway,” he growled. “Lupin, perhaps this will help. You drank a potion, given to you by a generous little girl.”  
Images flashed through Remus’s mind. A golden bottle, the cold bite of glass on his lips, and the warmth as the potion trickled down his throat. And then… something hazy, and painful, that he couldn’t grasp.  
“You turned into a werewolf, in the middle of the tournament.”  
Remus shut his eyes against the tide of memories, but he couldn’t hold them back. The screams, and the saliva on his teeth, and the delicious scent of blood. Lunging forward, and growling in delight and their terrified faces… And all he ever did was hurt, and it was good thing that Albus had never let him be a teacher, because he would only have made everything worse… And how the hell could this be happening? It wasn’t the full moon! What was WRONG with him?  
And now, he seemed to be enjoying this. “And you leaped, and hit an innocent boy - Harry Potter - right in the chest. You fell through the window.”  
Oh yes. His claws in the boy’s shoulders, ripping through his shirt. The terrified screams only inches from his teeth, and the scent of blood getting stronger and pounding in his ears. But there was something else… something hidden, that he couldn’t find. It felt wrong, whatever it was, it felt chilling and strange. He didn’t want to hear it, but he couldn’t live without knowing what it was.  
“And you fell… and fell… and you hit the ground. And you died.”  
He laughed.  
And Remus threw up.  
()()()  
“My lord?”  
Voldemort turned with a hiss, making Lucius’s hands shake, and making the water that he was carrying spill a little onto his shirt. The dark lord’s eyes were flashing, and he looked so inhuman and snake-like that Lucius took an involuntary step back, and the glass trembled in his hand.  
They were standing in his garden, at the edge where the grass melted away into trees. The sun was high above, but the dark lord’s mood made the air crackle with magic, and it made everything seem darker, somehow. Their shadows stretched unnaturally long, and the sun’s light had turned unnaturally frosty, overhead.  
No, everything had not gone according to plan. And the dark lord was furious. He had tortured the pathetic little house elf (and if Lucius was one to care about house elves, perhaps he would have been sympathetic) and the rest of the Slytherins, except for Nott, of course. He had even blown up several of the portraits of Lucius’s old relatives, simply because he could.  
So now, the dark lord’s eyes were flashing, and he looked like a snake, and Lucius wished he had never spoken.  
“Do not interrupt me,” he said, taking a step forward, and making Lucius take another weak step back. “I am doing something very important… more important than your insignificant little mind could ever comprehend.”  
Lucius lowered his head. “Yes, my lord.”  
He felt the rough, inhuman scratch of Voldemort’s skin on his, as he snatched the glass of water out of Lucius’s hand. A moment later, it was forced back into his grasp, empty. Lucius didn’t look up.  
“Very well. I won’t torture you now… I’m too busy. That will come later. For now… just be silent.”  
Lucius was silent.  
()()()  
Remus was dead.  
But how could that be, when his throat burned with the sour taste of vomit, and his eyes burned with hot, acidic tears, and he still had feelings, he could still feel pain… the pain in his heart, making everything ache?  
But some part of him knew it was. Because this was wrong. Only a few moments ago he had been falling and falling and falling, and now he was here. Just floating. And it couldn’t be a dream, no matter how badly he wished it could be one, because in dreams he didn’t feel pain or numb or sick or this horrible, horrible feeling in his stomach, something like panic.  
And in dreams, there was never a cloaked figure, flying through the darkness ahead of him, shouting things that cut him into pieces because they were so true. Telling him that he was dead and gone and Remus could do nothing but stare because it all made sense. He had fallen. And he was never, ever going to get up.  
“But then… why am I here?” he asked into the darkness.  
And Voldemort (for it could only be Voldemort, he realized that now) laughed. “Because I put you here, werewolf,” he hissed, raising his arms and glowing with a bright, red light. “I put everything here! Don’t you see? Don’t you understand? I am the most powerful, I am the greatest wizard to ever live. And I can do anything.”  
“That child…” Remus trailed off, beginning to put it all together (not that it mattered anymore).  
“Yes! She was my greatest invention… my masterpiece. And she still can be. I put her mind together, piece by piece, to become my greatest weapon. And I have succeeded. After all, she killed you. Genius, isn’t it?  
“But enough talk, Remus. I have a question for you. Just one, and then you can die all you like. I’ve already let Regulus go, you see. Oh, and he screamed like a madman. I can only hope that you will do the same.”  
Something tightened around Remus’s chest, something small and claustrophobic. The spinning had stopped when Voldemort left, but now everything started to turn again, and the only thing that he saw was darkness, interrupted again and again by the glowing, crimson silhouette of lord Voldemort, the one that sent chills up his spine.  
Some part of him had not processed quite yet what was going on, and Remus was grateful for that part. At least he wouldn’t die screaming and crying like a child, because he was so afraid of death (he always had been). At least he could die strong.  
So he waited, spinning in the darkness, for Voldemort’s question.  
He didn’t have to wait long.  
“Where is Sirius Black?” he hissed, and the echoes of his laughter cut into his words like a knife, and Remus began to spin faster and faster and faster. He hugged his knees and buried his face in them, but he only gained speed. And his head was going crazy, and he couldn’t think…  
Where is Sirius Black?  
Where is Sirius Black?  
()  
“Here he is,” Millicent Bagnold announced, from her chair at the top of the courtroom, with the members of the Wizengamot seated beneath her, and about a hundred other witches and wizards surrounding the small, iron chair in the center of the room.  
Remus, along with the rest, leaned forward to get a good look.  
And there he was. There was Sirius Black, being led in by two Ministry guards. He held his head high, even as they forced him down roughly into the chair, and as the metal chains leaped up to bind his arms and legs. And his gaze swept across the courtroom, hypnotic, and Remus almost gasped when it landed on him.  
Heartbeats.  
And then Sirius looked away.  
No. Remus should be angry. Twelve Muggles, twelve of them! It was wrong, it was wrong, it was evil and wrong. He should hate Sirius. And he would, just given time. Don’t you worry about that. He would hate him with every fiber of his being. He would tell people that if he had been there, then he would have struck Sirius down with a curse, and laughed when he told the story.  
But right then, he was fragile and scared and sad. And Sirius’s face, with his head held high, made Remus almost want to jump down from his seat and beg him to tell him that he didn’t do it, that it was someone else, even though there was no one else.  
“Sirius Black,” Bagnold continued, and the entire courtroom hung on her every word. “Accused of the betrayal of the Potters, and the murders of twelve Muggles and Peter Pettigrew.”  
Heartbeats, getting faster.  
Because it sounded worse, and impossible, when she said it.  
“Sirius…” Remus whispered, wincing when tears sprang to his eyes. For he could never have imagined, that after all of their years of friendship, it would have ended in this.  
“Do you have anything to say to yourself before you are sent to Azkaban?” Bagnold asked, with a cruel smile twisting over her lips. Remus got the impression that she enjoyed doing this, and it made him want to drop his head into his hands and just cry, forever, because there was no hope. There would be nothing left but an insane James and a dead Peter, and a Sirius who was a murderer and would die alone in Azkaban. And even though Remus knew that Sirius deserved it, it still hurt to watch it happen.  
Because after today, he would have no one left.  
Sirius raised his chin proudly, without looking away from the crowd of people who were staring at him. He didn’t look at Remus, no matter how badly Remus wished that he would. And he opened his mouth and he said, “I didn’t do it.”  
A spark of hope in Remus’s stomach, drowned out by the sounds of laughter, and jeering, and insults and shouts and more laughter, ringing in his ears. Remus shoved his hands in his pockets and fought the wolf’s instincts that told him to run away, but it was hard.  
Bagnold was laughing, too. She actually wiped tears out of her eyes. “Sure, you didn’t. Guards,” she snapped her fingers. “Take him.”  
But Sirius didn’t struggle when they pulled him out of the chair, and led him out of the courtroom. All he did was look back, once, at Remus, and his eyes burned.  
And then they were gone.  
()  
“Where is he?” Remus repeated. “How should I know? I haven’t seen him in sixteen years,” his voice broke. “And why do you care? Why does it matter? He was a murderer! Do you want him so that you can make him kill more people? Is that why? It doesn’t matter anyway, because he’s in Azkaban, and he’s probably…”  
“Spare me your sentimentality, Lupin. If you must know, he is not a murderer, he is not in Azkaban, and I care because I want to kill him. I have information that has led me to believe that a certain problematic sixteen-year old may have found him, and I need to know where Black is so that I can kill them both. So tell me, where is he?”  
“I told you! I don’t know!”  
“Liar.”  
And something wrapped its ugly, scaly hands around Remus’s mind, and squeezed. And memories fell away like water from a sponge. Dirty water oozing out to land in Voldemort’s outstretched hand.  
()  
The doorbell didn’t work.  
And so Remus knocked. And the day was hot, and he was tired and hungry, and Sirius’s house had a broken, hanging shutter and a moldy welcome mat and the doorbell didn’t work, but still, he knocked.  
“Just a moment!” Sirius grunted from beyond the door (Remus’s heart jumped when he heard that voice) and Remus heard the thumping of footsteps and a clatter as something fell to the floor, and he smiled in spite of himself. He shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot, with his hands in his pockets, waiting for the door to open.  
And, while he waited, he fixed his tie and ran a hand through his hair, and cleared his throat and bit his nails, and his mind raced around in circles.  
Then the door opened. It took a moment for Remus’s eyes to adjust to the darkness that was Sirius’s house (it was no wonder he had knocked something over when he walked to the door) but when he did, he immediately met Sirius’s eyes. And then his heart was beating wildly in his chest, and Remus’s hands began to shake around the little piece of paper in his hand.  
Because his eyes were different.  
But before he could think, Sirius had grabbed his hand, and was pulling him inside. Remus felt a short stab of panic (because the room was dark, and it wouldn’t be so surprising if Sirius had led him there to kill him, no matter how much it hurt to think that he would do something like that) but Sirius let him go as soon as he was through the door.  
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Just… paranoid, I guess. Don’t want anyone to see you.”  
And then there was silence. Remus used the time to drink in Sirius’s face, his lips, his nose, his shining eyes… his dirty hair, and how much older he was, and the state of his clothes… he didn’t ever want to stop looking, but every second hurt.  
“Well, then,” he said, turning away. “Explain, like you said you would. Tell me how you didn’t do it, so that I can be your friend again.”  
He ended up looking at the dark, dismal place that Sirius was living in, and at his obviously failed attempt to clean up the place (clothes thrown into a heap in the corner, the floor half-cleaned and a few dishes still in the sink), and sighed. It reminded him too much of his own place, and that reminded him of how similar they were, and always had been.  
And he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Sirius’s, and it was warm, and it took almost inhuman strength to reach up and push it away. “No,” he said, turning back around, and meeting Sirius’s eyes again. They were sharp, and dark, and hidden behind a wall. Remus hated that.  
Sirius walked past him. “You’re right,” he said, and his voice was hoarser than Remus remembered. “You need to know the truth.”  
Remus followed him. “How did you get out, anyway? I thought that was supposed to be impossible.”  
“My Animagus form,” Sirius said. “The dementors couldn’t feed off of its happiness, or some bullshit like that. I escaped a few months ago, but they only realized it now. And then I figured I might as well send you a letter, because I don’t give a fuck if someone else finds it. They can’t find me here. This place was passed down through my family, and there are a million spells on it. It was only visible so that you could find it.”  
“You made your house visible so that I could find it? What if someone else saw it, or noticed that there was an extra house here?”  
“Oh, lay off, Remus,” Sirius said, sitting down on a couch and groaning. “I’m tired. I wasn’t thinking straight.”  
Remus sat down beside him, careful to not touch him, not to let their arms brush. Because it would have been so easy to fall back into old habits - to trust him, to even lean his head on his shoulder or curl a strand of his hair around his finger. Even after sixteen years, it would have been so easy.  
“Just tell me the truth, Sirius,” Remus said, looking down at his own clasped hands, with the bitten, bloody nails and the scars. And then he looked at Sirius’s, which were fidgeting wildly, grabbing at pieces of his cloak, drumming fingers along the couch, and then cracking knuckles loudly. He never used to fidget like that before.  
What if he was going to end up like Lily and James? What if Azkaban had driven him crazy?  
The thought sent chills up Remus’s spine, for if Sirius went insane, some part of him knew that he would go insane as well.  
Remus looked up and found that Sirius was looking at him. “It was Wormtail,” he said.  
Remus just looked at him. And then he laughed, a short, mirthless laugh. “What?” he asked, and he stood, angry that Sirius was just sitting there, still looking at him. Remus turned in a wild circle and his robes flew around his legs. He accidentally tripped over a pile of clothes, and he almost fell. But he caught himself, and pointed an accusing, disbelieving finger at the space right between Sirius’s eyes. He laughed again, because he couldn’t believe what was happening. “You’re lying!” he almost shouted. “Right to my face! Sirius, Peter is dead because of you! You murdered him! Are you crazy, now? Are you forgetting the people you killed?”  
“Remus, he isn’t…”  
“Are you going to pretend that he isn’t dead, now? They found his bloody finger, Sirius! He was blown into pieces! You’re… you’re a murderer, Sirius!” Remus drew his wand. “You killed thirteen people, and betrayed the Potters, and you escaped from prison, and now you’re insane and you don’t even remember what you did! I should have known from the instant you sent me that cursed letter. You’re a liar and a coward and a fool.”  
Remus backed away, towards the door. “I’m going to stun you and take you back to the Ministry. You’ll be sent to Azkaban… for the rest of your life.”  
He stopped.  
And put his hand over his face, to hide his eyes.  
“Don’t,” Sirius said, standing, walking closer. “Please. I swear to you, I can prove it. I can…”  
Remus shook his head. “No. I don’t need you to prove anything. I don’t believe you can. Just let me leave, and I swear I won’t tell a soul that you’re here.”  
Sirius took a step forward, but Remus matched it by backing away. And the hurt wasn’t evident in his eyes, but Remus saw it in the stillness of his hands, and the way that he bit his lip. “Remus, please,”he whispered, pleading.  
Remus took one last look at him. Then he shook his head, and turned, walking out of number 12, Grimmauld Place, without looking back.  
()  
“That was two years ago. He’ll be gone now, I’m sure. He wouldn’t stay in one place for so long - he’s too smart for that,” Remus rambled, aware that the more he tried to convince Voldemort, the less likely it seemed that he was telling the truth. But it didn’t matter. If Voldemort found Sirius, he didn’t think he would be able to live with that.  
Oh, right. He was dead.  
And Voldemort began to laugh. The red light flashed, and Remus started spinning again, slowly, but it brought back the nausea almost immediately. “No need for your lies, Remus. I have the truth, and it’s right there in your memories. I have no need for you anymore.”  
And the red light grew stronger, intensifying, until the face of Lord Voldemort appeared, only inches away from Remus’s own.  
()  
And he changed his mind without even thinking, ran back into the house and found Sirius still there, staring at the door…  
()  
And Voldemort’s eyes flashed with darkness, and everything spun. Panic rising steadily, because Remus knew that now he was going to die, and everything was going to end.  
()  
“Why are you back here?” Sirius asked, with an accusation in his voice.  
Remus didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Sirius’s face roughly with both hands and pulled him forward so that their lips crashed together. It wasn’t romantic, it wasn’t sentimental and sweet. It was just stupid and desperate, and it went by too quickly.  
“If only you weren’t such a cowardly, foolish little liar, than perhaps something could have existed between us,” Remus whispered against Sirius’s lips, and then he pulled away abruptly. Sirius groaned softly, grabbing at the sleeve of Remus’s robes, but he snatched them away and turned to walk out, again.  
()  
“Tragic, truly,” Voldemort murmured, even as he placed his bone-white palms against the sides of Remus’s head, and his eyes burned with fire that was going to make Remus go blind. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to think about it ever again.”  
He struggled, trying to get away, but everything was spinning and he was only going to throw up.  
His mind started to fall into pieces.  
Memories, slipping away. All of it was leaving, and Remus felt like a glass of water, tipped onto its side. It left an emptiness in his whole body, until he was only a shell, like a shed snakeskin.  
()  
And then there was nothing but darkness, and the warmth of Sirius’s hand on his, fingers interlaced. Remus heard himself sigh into the dark, saw himself turn, and envied the shine of his eyes and the way that his skin wasn’t pale and white, and how his chest would rise and fall as he breathed.  
“Wait,” Sirius whispered.  
Remus met his eyes, and the seconds stretched out. And then he shook his head, pulled his hand away, and walked out the door.  
Emptiness.  
()()()  
Number 12, Grimmauld Place.  
It had been easy to find. There had been about twenty enchantments placed on it, easily destroyed, but easy to notice, as well. It was like there was a neon sign overhead, reading, A Wizard Lives Here!  
Blaise tried the doorbell, but it didn’t work. So he knocked.  
The house had a broken, hanging shutter and a moldy welcome mat and the doorbell didn’t work. And it was dark, and dreary, and slightly creepy. It matched the way that Blaise felt, so he was happy with his decision to come here. And even if it had been a bad one, he wasn’t afraid. Experience had shown him that he was strong enough to kill almost anyone, and he would do it again if he had to.  
He waited for about a minute, and then he heard a click as the door was unlocked, and then it swung open. Blaise looked blankly ahead into the darkness for a moment before he realized that a small, grey house elf was standing beneath him.  
“Who are you?” the elf asked, in an unusually deep, angry voice.  
Blaise straightened his robes. “I am looking for Sirius Black,” he announced, rather loudly, so that the wizard could hear him from within the house. He must still be there, for only a wizard or a witch would own a house elf.  
“He’s not interested,” the house elf growled, and then it attempted to close the door.  
Blaise blocked it with his foot. “I don’t give a damn if he’s interested or not,” he said. “Tell him that.”  
The house elf sighed. “He can hear you. And I can assure you, being obnoxious isn’t going to make him change his mind!”  
Blaise was getting angry. “I have a letter! From Remus Lupin. And it said to come here. I don’t know when he sent it, but I needed a place to stay, and I thought I would try this. Now, if you don’t let me talk to him in person, you will regret it. Let me in.”  
“No.”  
But then they heard footsteps. And then a wizard came into view. His hair was wild, his clothes were old and faded. But there was something about his eyes, something deep and unsettling, that gave Blaise the chills.  
“Remus Lupin’s letter, you say?” he asked, in a gravely, possibly unused voice. “You can come in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review :)


End file.
